


Statistical Anomaly, or The Mystery of the Brides in the Bath

by Jolie_Black



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Drama, During Canon, Friendship, Gen, John is bad at feelings too, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Pre-Reichenbach, Screenplay/Script Format, Season/Series 02, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is bad at feelings, casefic, extra episode, still canon compliant after season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-07 08:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8790313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolie_Black/pseuds/Jolie_Black
Summary: At first, it’s just an unexplained death. But it soon leads Sherlock and John deep into a labyrinth of lies, deceit and duplicity. In the end, it'll be the toughest test of their friendship to date. An extra episode set during season 2, between “A Scandal in Belgravia” and “The Hounds of Baskerville”. Casefic, Drama & Friendship. Gen, no pairings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes to readers outside the UK: 
> 
> A Free Clinic, in the UK, is **not** a general clinic for people too poor to pay for healthcare/insurance, but specifically a sexual health clinic that offers anonymous, low-threshold services like testing for and treating HIV and other STDs, providing emergency contraception etc. Here's an example: [dean.st](http://dean.st)
> 
> The General Medical Council is the body that governs the registration of medical doctors in the UK, and that has the power to bar doctors from practising medicine if they don’t comply with the standards of good practise.

* * *

 

_**221B Baker Street, London. Sherlock’s bedroom,** _ _on an overcast Monday morning in early March. The lights are off, and Sherlock is in his bed, still fast asleep, buried so deeply under pillows and blankets that only his dark hair peeks out between them. The clock radio on his bedside table says 9:23 a.m._

_In the background, however, somewhere else in the house, there's already a level of activity: Muted voices, and a slight clattering of dishes and cutlery, but nowhere near loud enough to disturb Sherlock’s sleep._

_A moment later, the silence in the room is broken by the buzz of Sherlock’s phone, which is on the bedside table next to the radio. It’s a single sound, a text message alert rather than a phone call, but with the piece of furniture acting as a sound box, there’s something curiously insistent about it._

_Sherlock’s hand comes shooting out from under the covers, making a grab for the phone. He misses his target by an inch or so and gropes around blindly for a moment, until his fingers close around the – already silent again – phone. Then the rest of Sherlock burrows out of his nest of bedding. He swings his legs over the side of the mattress to sit up, his eyes on the message on the screen. It’s from Greg Lestrade:_

Dead body found in bathtub in Peckham.

_In the blink of an eye, Sherlock is on his feet and out of the room. He pulls on his blue dressing gown as he hurries down the short passage, then bursts into the kitchen, phone in hand, his hair standing wildly in all directions, but his eyes wide awake and shining with excitement._

SHERLOCK: John? John! We’ve got a case!

_**In the kitchen,** John is sitting at the table, with a plate with beans on toast, a mug of tea and an open newspaper in front of him. Mrs Hudson is pottering around by the sink, filling the electric kettle. They both look around in surprise at Sherlock’s sudden appearance. Sherlock stops short, bewildered by their lack of immediate enthusiasm at the news._  

SHERLOCK: A case, John! Lestrade -

_But just then, his phone cuts him off, with another buzz signalling a new message. Sherlock glances down at the screen, eager for more details – and immediately deflates. His face falls until he’s positively scowling. John frowns at his friend's sudden change of expression._

SHERLOCK _(in very different, rather flat tone):_ No, actually, we don’t have a case. _(He puts the phone into the pocket of his dressing gown.)_ _You_  don’t, at any rate. 

_John and Mrs Hudson exchange a confused look. Sherlock makes an impatient gesture with his hand, as if to shoo John away from the table._

SHERLOCK _(with a very unconvincing show of indifference):_ Go on, go to your work, there’s absolutely nothing here that you’ll be missing. 

MRS HUDSON _(to John, putting down the kettle):_ Oh, John? Have you found something that suits you, then? 

JOHN _(his eyes going back and forth between Sherlock and Mrs Hudson, defensively):_ Well, yes, but I - I’m only helping out for a couple of shifts every week. It’s not like full time, or anything… 

_He’s clearly having second thoughts about it already._

MRS HUDSON _(apparently oblivious to his discomfort):_ Well, that sounds just perfect. Where is it?

JOHN: Erm - just round the corner. 

SHERLOCK _(to Mrs Hudson):_ Marylebone Free Clinic.

_Mrs Hudson raises her eyebrows._

JOHN: Yeah, well, I know it’s not very glamorous. But they’re desperately short-staffed, especially on Mondays with the usual after-weekend traffic, and -

SHERLOCK _(in a very bored tone, as if reciting a lecture learned by rote):_ \- and John needs to have something to show for when he renews his registration with the General Medical Council next year. Besides, army doctors know all about STDs, of course. _(He lowers his voice to a mock-conspiratorial whisper.)_ Just don’t tell anyone. 

_Mrs Hudson and John both pull a face at this last comment, John not amused and Mrs Hudson downright scandalised._  

SHERLOCK _(to Mrs Hudson):_ So, let’s leave John to lower London’s abysmal HIV infection and teenage pregnancy rates, and I’m going to raise Scotland Yard’s abysmal crime clear-up rate, and we’ll all be happy. To each his own.

_He turns on his bare heel and strides back out of the kitchen. A moment later, the door to his bedroom bangs shut. With a sigh, Mrs Hudson picks up the kettle again._  

MRS HUDSON _(sympathetically):_ It’s really not going down well with him, is it?

JOHN: We did talk this through. It’s going to work. I  _have_  time for both. 

MRS HUDSON: You should have heard him complain when you missed two clients yesterday.

JOHN _(irritated):_ He can take his own notes once in a while, you know. Doesn’t look like they kept him busy for more than three minutes, either, or he wouldn’t be so excited about a new case now. And besides, I wasn’t working yesterday, I was helping my sister move house.

  _Mrs Hudson walks over to pat his shoulder in maternal commiseration._

MRS HUDSON _(warmly):_ It’s alright, dear, you stand by it. I didn’t feel good spending Frank’s money all the time either, I would have liked some of my own, too. Not to mention a bit of breathing space, now and again.

_John automatically opens his mouth to protest against her mistaken assumptions, but then he just puffs out a resigned breath and returns his attention to his breakfast._

_In his bedroom, Sherlock has made no move yet to get dressed. He's standing just inside the closed door, his eyes on the screen of his phone again, as if willing the new message to make some other than the obvious sense. It’s from Greg Lestrade, like the first, and it says:_

Don’t bring John.

 

* * *

_**A terrace of small Victorian houses in a more respectable part of Peckham, mid-morning.** _ _The front door of Number 14 is being guarded by a uniformed constable. There are several police cars parked in the street, and so is an ambulance, but its crew stands talking and smoking next to it, clearly with no urgent task at hand any more._

_A cab drives up, and Sherlock, now fully and properly dressed in his trademark dark suit, coat and scarf, gets out. The constable waves him right through the door. He’s obviously expected._  

CONSTABLE: Upstairs. Bathroom.

_Sherlock nods._

_**Inside the house,** a second door gives access to the ground floor flat, while a carpeted flight of stairs leads up to the upper floor. Sherlock ascends it. The upstairs flat is brightly lit, and there’s a low hum of voices coming from it. The narrow hallway, a windowless space furnished with a shoe rack to one side and a little cabinet to put keys and gloves and such things on to the other, is deserted. Sherlock takes it in with a single sweeping glance - the shoes on the rack, all female; the wallpaper with a cheerful but conventional white-and-lime green striped design; on the far wall, a framed poster of Rio de Janeiro, with a beautiful aerial view of the Sugarloaf Mountain and the Bay of Guanabara; _ _in the wall above the little cabinet, an empty nail that looks like it was waiting for more decorations to be put up; and straight ahead, a door with a pane of frosted glass in it. Behind the glass, the silhouettes of two people can be seen moving to and fro. Sherlock moves towards it._

_In the bathroom, which is surprisingly spacious, Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan are examining the scene of an unexpected death. The bathtub - a perfectly ordinary, modern white bathtub - is full almost to overflowing with slightly murky water. The floor, which is made up of wooden boards with a plush white-and-blue bathmat on top, is wet from the bathwater that seems to have splashed out of the tub, or run down its outer side. Towards the end of the tub, a pair of human knees peeks out of the water. The rest of the body is submerged – no more than a blurry shape, with tresses of long dark hair floating on the surface, entirely obscuring the dead woman’s face._

_Lestrade and Sally Donovan both straighten up and turn around when Sherlock joins them. When Sherlock makes no move to do or say anything, Lestrade clears his throat._

LESTRADE: Right. The landlady downstairs woke to find a huge damp patch on the ceiling of her bedroom. The water had come seeping through the floorboards. She’s got a key, of course, so when nobody answered her knocks, she let herself in to check what was wrong. And found this.

_With a gloved hand, he gestures at the body of the woman in the bath. Sherlock’s eyes roam over the dead body in its curious position - head and torso resting on the bottom of the bath, under water; legs drawn up and resting against the inner side of the tub, knees high and dry. Then they move on to the other fittings of the room._

_There is a large round mirror above a washbasin, with a matching shelf underneath, holding a glass with a single toothbrush and several bottles of perfume, creams and makeup paraphernalia. On the other wall, next to the closed toilet, there is a wooden stool with the dead woman’s clothes on it: jeans, a black top, and her underwear, the strap of a black lace bra dangling down. Above it, a shelf has been mounted on the wall, with neatly folded fresh towels stacked on it. They're in two different sizes - three in hand towel and two in bath towel size - but they're all in the same white-and-blue design as the bath mat, clearly part of a set._

_Eventually, Sherlock turns back to the police officers. Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan have been watching him, Lestrade uncharacteristically anxious, Sally uncharacteristically silent._

SHERLOCK: You want a doctor for this.

_Lestrade and Sally exchange a quick look._

LESTRADE _(in a curiously guarded tone):_ A doctor?

SHERLOCK _(impatiently):_ Yes, of course _. (He jerks his chin at the dead woman in the bath.)_ Heart attack? Stroke? Drug overdose? Suicide? You rule all that out first, and then you can call me in again. But there’s no point in theorising without sufficient data. _(He gives Lestrade a reproachful look.)_ As I keep telling you. _(He sniffs discontentedly.)_ You could of course have had a medical man here for an expert opinion on the spot, but for some reason that I can't quite fathom, you appear to care little about getting your job done today. _(He takes out his phone and holds it up, quoting Lestrade’s message.)_ “Don’t bring John.” _(Sarcastically)_ It's lovely how you're all in this together. It’s not like I was going to lock him in his bedroom to stop him starting that new job of his, you know.

_Lestrade and Donovan exchange another look, but Sherlock continues his tirade before either of them can get a word in._

SHERLOCK _(with a sweeping gesture of his hand):_ Well, seal the whole place off until you’ve got a cause of death. I’ll tell you what to look for then.

_He gathers his coat about himself, and starts walking out of the room. His hand is on the door handle when Lestrade speaks up behind his back._

LESTRADE _(quietly):_ Look at her, Sherlock. Just  _really_  look at her.

_Sherlock hesitates. Something in the Detective-Inspector’s tone makes him turn slowly on his heel to face Lestrade again. He gives him a long, very sceptical look, but then he steps back up to the bathtub and the silent figure resting in it. Lestrade pulls up his right sleeve, plunges his gloved hand into the water, and gently brushes the strands of black hair off the dead woman’s face. When the ripples from the sudden movement subside, her delicate, now slightly bloated features come into clear view, her full lips blueish, her dark eyes closed. It is the face of Jeanette, John Watson’s one-time girlfriend who dumped him at Christmas._

* * *

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**_St. Bartholomew's Hospital. The morgue. The dissection room, later on the same day._ ** _On one of the tables, Jeanette’s body has been placed for examination. She’s covered in a sheet from the neck down. Her straggling, still wet hair surrounds her head like a dark cloud. Sherlock, minus his coat now, stands bent over her head, absorbed in an examination of her hairline with his_ _magnifying glass. Molly Hooper, in her usual white lab coat and holding a clip-board, comes walking over to join him._

MOLLY _(ruefully):_ Drowning never looks nice, does it?

SHERLOCK _(without looking up):_ Is that what happened, then?

MOLLY: At first glance, yes. The blue lips, the bloated face... _  
_

_Sherlock, who seems to be barely listening, now moves to the side of the table and plucks up the sheet covering the body to reveal Jeanette's right hand. He continues his scrutiny with the magnifier._

MOLLY _(after a moment, awkwardly):_ It does make a difference, doesn’t it, when you’ve met them. I mean, I didn’t even really meet her, not properly… Just being in the same room once doesn't count, does it? But John, I mean, she being his girlfriend and all...

SHERLOCK _(in a flat tone):_ Ex-girlfriend.

MOLLY: Well, it was still kind of Greg Lestrade to spare John the sight, I thought.

SHERLOCK: Yes, and his kindness has lost us precious hours until the first proper medical opinion. _(He raises his eyes to the heavens.)_ All for the sake of satisfying the General Medical Council.

_But he's far too preoccupied to put much venom into his words. Now he carefully turns the limp hand over to examine the palm._

MOLLY _(with the slightest hint of disapproval in her voice):_ Well, I don’t suppose John would have been all that keen to look - you know.

SHERLOCK: Well, _I'm_ keen to find her murderer.

MOLLY _(surprised):_ Sorry, what? _(She glances at the document on her clipboard.)_ I've got her down as unexplained.

_Sherlock straightens up abruptly, and clicks the magnifier shut._

SHERLOCK: There was a substantial amount of water on the floor of her bathroom. Enough to go right through to the floor below. She must have struggled.

MOLLY: Well, if it was a fit, or a seizure, she could have splashed around, too. Not everybody who dies gets murdered, you know.

SHERLOCK _(scowling):_ Yes, more's the pity. But a fit or a seizure wouldn't explain the absence of her mobile phone and her calendar.

MOLLY: They were both gone?

SHERLOCK: No sign of her phone in the whole flat. And in the hall, a glaringly empty nail in the wall above the little cabinet where she kept her keys and gloves and handbag and all that. _(Rapid-fire deduction mode)_ Traces of discolouration on the wallpaper, indicating the recent presence of a rectangular object about five inches wide and fifteen inches long. That's your typical wall-mounted appointment calendar with a page per month, postcard-sized pictures of big-eyed puppy dogs or kittens with pink bows on top, and a line per day to write your appointments and friends' birthdays in below. Aesthetically abhorrent, highly impractical, but ubiquitous in the homes of single women of your age and over. You've got one of those up in your own flat, you know what I'm talking about.

MOLLY _(stammering with embarrassment):_ I – how do you – you've never even been in my flat!

SHERLOCK _(with a disconcerting smile):_ Just proves my point, doesn't it? One of those was there at Jeanette's, too, and now it's gone. So, getting rid of _the_  two objects that could have told posterity what you were up to on the last day of your life isn't exactly what people usually do before they succumb to sudden unexpected heart attacks or seizures or strokes, is it?

MOLLY _(in a voice full of sympathy):_ Oh dear, no...

_She glances at Jeanette's body and shakes her head sadly._

SHERLOCK: No sign of a break-in, even the bathroom door unlocked - the whole scenario screams domestic murder. But how did he do it?

MOLLY: “He”?

SHERLOCK: Of course. There’s only a very limited number of people in whose presence a grown woman would feel comfortable enough to undress and get into the bath: Her mother, her sister, or her lover. But Jeanette de Souza had no sister, and no mother any more, either. Lestrade said they’re having trouble finding any next of kin to contact at all. That leaves a lover, even though according to her neighbours and her colleagues, there was no steady boyfriend recently that they knew of. _(Frustrated)_ But  _how?_

_He turns back to the body, and lets his hands hover closely above the Jeanette’s face. He bares his teeth in a silent snarl, fingers spread out like claws, as if ready to pounce. Molly grimaces. Sherlock, unsatisfied, shifts his hands downwards, as if to make a grab for the poor woman’s throat instead. But then he takes a step back, and shakes his head._

SHERLOCK: She’d have seen it coming. She’d have fought. There would be finger marks, bruises, scratches, abrasions,  _something_. But there aren't.

_He puts his hands together in front of his face, fingertips tapping thoughtfully against his lips, his eyes still fixed on the dead body. Then he startles Molly by walking abruptly over into the corner of the room where a computer desk is installed. He comes back dragging the desk chair that was positioned there. He settles himself into it, using his weight to tilt the backrest backwards as far as it will go, legs stretched out in front of him, head back, eyes closed._

SHERLOCK: Drown me.

MOLLY _(perplexed):_ I – what?

SHERLOCK: I’m naked in a bath. Drown me.

 _Molly stares at Sherlock’s prone figure - which is indeed in the closest possible approximation to a person in a bathtub, with their back resting against the sloping end and their head propped up on the edge. A deep blush rises up her face as the mental image threatens to overwhelm her._ _She swallows, and opens her mouth, but no words come out. Sherlock cracks his left eye open._

SHERLOCK: And remember, if you take too long to wonder how to do it best, I'll become suspicious.

_Molly has actually begun to sweat slightly. She nervously runs the tip of her tongue over her upper lip, but then she steels herself, puts down her clipboard and steps behind Sherlock. She takes a deep breath, then puts her hands on his jacket-clad shoulders, and with a determined downward push tries to force him off the chair. Sherlock, without making any active effort at resisting, still doesn't budge an inch. He only smiles. Molly lets go very quickly._

MOLLY: It’s not working. It'd be a bit more slippery if you were – I mean, if it was real. But you'd be sitting on the bottom of the bath already, there's no deeper I could push you.

SHERLOCK: Exactly. _(He sits up straight.)_ It's not a question of our relative strength and weight, it's the physical limits of the bathtub itself. I  _can't_ go deeper. And even if I slid forward on my backside, all I’d need to do was stretch out my legs. Then my feet would hit the lower end of the tub, using it as a buffer and keeping my head above the water. _(He gestures at the dead body.)_ She's shorter than me, but it would still be the same, in a standard-size bathtub like hers. Even  _you_  wouldn't fit full-length into one of those.

MOLLY _(with the tiniest hint of sarcasm):_ Well, that's a relief.

_But Sherlock is already settling back in the chair again._

SHERLOCK: Right. Try something else.

MOLLY _(slowly, thinking aloud):_ I  _could_  try and push your head and shoulders forward until they're under water. But hardly anyone's that flexible. And you’d have good leverage with your arms to struggle back up. _(She tugs pensively at a stray lock of her hair that has escaped from her ponytail, her forehead furrowed in concentration. Her genuine interest in the medical puzzle they're faced with is beginning to outweigh her embarrassment at Sherlock’s request to her.)_ No, I think I'd have to turn you over completely – _(She wags her head, as if calculating her chances of succeeding, then shakes it in definite negation.)_ But that would mean bumps and bruises all over the place, in a narrow bathtub, even if I had the strength. No, none of this would work, really. Odd.

SHERLOCK _(drily):_ Odd indeed.

MOLLY _(putting her hands in the pockets of her coat, with slightly exaggerated cheerfulness):_ Well, we'll know for sure tomorrow.

SHERLOCK _(sitting up, surprised):_  Tomorrow? I thought you were going to do her straight away?

MOLLY: No, she's scheduled for 8 a. m. tomorrow morning. _(She holds up a hand defensively.)_ And don't ask, no, I can't change that. I’m not in charge. They're getting a Home Office pathologist to do the autopsy. I'll only be allowed to hand him the lancets.

SHERLOCK: What?  _(In a feeble attempt at joking)_ Are you in trouble with the General Medical Council, too?

MOLLY _(quickly):_ No, no, it’s not that. I –

_She blushes, and breaks off._

SHERLOCK _(earnestly):_ The police have never found fault with your work before.

MOLLY _(evasively):_ I know, it’s not that either. I – never mind. I don't know. It's actually the correct procedure to call them in, for an unexplained death. We just rarely bother.

SHERLOCK: Who's going to be in charge?

MOLLY: Professor Spilsbury.

SHERLOCK _(raising his eyebrows):_ The biggest name in the business?

MOLLY: Maybe they think that a famous name like that will carry more weight with a jury, if it really was murder. I don’t know. But there's one thing you can tell John straight away. Just to put his mind at rest.

SHERLOCK: And that is?

MOLLY: Suicide is out.

_There’s a moment of silence. Sherlock searches her face, surprised - not so much at the fact itself, but rather at the confidence with which Molly is presenting it._

SHERLOCK: How can you be sure without looking inside?

MOLLY: Nobody ever manages to deliberately drown themselves in their own bathtub, you know. That just doesn't happen. No matter how determined you are in your mind, your body will always struggle back to the surface. If you want to die in water, you’ve got to trick your body into not resisting. Jump from a high bridge so the impact knocks you clean out. Swim out from the shore, or let the current take you, until you’re too exhausted to make your way back. Or walk out on the ice until it cracks under your feet, and let hypothermia do the job.

SHERLOCK: Or take an overdose of sleeping pills and wait in your cosy warm bath for them to take effect?

MOLLY _(crossing her arms):_ And first dispose of the container so cleverly that even Sherlock Holmes can’t find it in your entire flat?

SHERLOCK _(narrowing his eyes):_ How do you know I didn’t?

MOLLY: Because even you wouldn't waste an hour re-enacting a murder that never happened.

SHERLOCK: Maybe I'm just secretly testing whether Professor Spilsbury deserves his reputation as the country's leading forensic pathologist?

_He gets up, and walks over to where his coat hangs on a peg by the washbasin near the door._

MOLLY: You know, you could save us a lot of time and trouble if you’d tell us straight away if there  _is_  anything specific we should look for. _(Under her breath)_ Not that you’d care, I suppose.

_Sherlock, too far away to hear her last comment, doesn’t respond. He shrugs into his coat and ties his scarf, then pulls out his black leather gloves and puts them on. He’s about to take his leave when Molly speaks up again._

MOLLY: That's how I'd do it, by the way.

SHERLOCK _(stopping short):_ Do what?

MOLLY _(a little recklessly):_ Drown you in a bath. I'd drug you. I'd spike your drink with a sedative, and then I'd suggest getting into that nice hot steamy tub together. And then I'd watch you slide under the surface all on your own, without ever laying my hands on you.

_Sherlock stares at her in astonishment for a moment. Then he covers the distance between them in a few long strides, and to Molly's own utter surprise takes her face between his gloved hands and plants a resounding kiss on her forehead._

SHERLOCK _(genially):_ Ah, Molly Hooper. I  _love_ the way your mind works. _(He beams down at her as if she's just made him the best present ever.)_ Text me which substance, as soon as you know.

_And with a swish of coattails, he's gone. Molly stands staring after him for a moment, her hand pressed to her forehead. But then, instead of turning beet red and gasping for breath, she just smiles, and turns back to her work._

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _221B Baker Street. The living room. Night time._** _It’s dark outside, and dark in the room as well. Sherlock has ensconced himself in his armchair. He has his violin_ _across his lap, but has ceased playing on it, not even plucking listlessly on the strings now. His eyes are open and roaming across the room, but they’re strangely glassy, as if he’s seeing things that are not quite there._

_Which is exactly what’s happening. In his mind, the room is festively and cosily lit. The fairy lights and the pine garlands around the windows and above the fireplace are back, and the place is full of people again, just like it was at the real Christmas a few months earlier - John in his hideous Christmas jumper; Lestrade just looked in at the end of his shift, ready for a holiday; Mrs Hudson, a little tipsy already; and just then, Jeanette, wearing the same dark blue outfit and with her long dark hair up in a bun, comes walking up to Sherlock carrying a tray of mince pies and cakes._

SHERLOCK’s VOICE _(in his head, politely):_ No thank you, Jeanette.

_Jeanette turns to look at Mind Palace John in surprise._

MIND PALACE JEANETTE _(to John):_ He got my name right. Why would he even bother to remember my name ? _(She pouts.)_ Are you telling me that he actually cares about why I died, too? _(She looks Sherlock up and down critically.)_ And d'you really think he can figure it out?

_The scene blurs, and with a jolt, Sherlock is back in the real world. In the open door of the dark living room stands the real John Watson, in his customary black jacket, and in the process of toeing off his wet shoes. There’s a sheen of rain on his hair and shoulders, too._

JOHN: What were you saying?

SHERLOCK _(defensively):_ Was I saying anything?

JOHN: Oh yeah, just now, when I came in. You said “No no no, I can get this”. Quite forcefully. Well, good luck, whatever it is you’re trying to get.

_John smiles indulgently at his flatmate’s strange whims, then ducks back into the passage outside to hang his jacket on the coatrack. Returning to the living room, he makes a bee-line for his own armchair, switches on the reading lamp, and slumps down, stretching out his legs with a groan. Sherlock carefully lifts the violin from his lap and places it in the case on the floor next to his chair._

SHERLOCK _(almost tentatively):_ So - dinner?

JOHN: Oh, no thanks, I just had some. _(In response to Sherlock’s surprised look)_ With the team from the clinic. The waiting room was still packed when I was supposed to sign off at two, so it, you know - it would have felt wrong to just leave. So when we closed at five, they asked would I like to join them for a bite, just to meet everyone properly and talk a bit, and I did. They’re a really friendly bunch. It’s a good place.

SHERLOCK _(in a carefully neutral tone):_ I’m pleased to hear it.

_John gives his friend a slight look of doubt at this, but then decides to take it at face value._

JOHN: It’ll get a bit frustrating after a while, I suppose. People making the same mistakes over and over again, ignoring even the most basic common-sense advice… A lot of the work there is like locking the stable door when the horse has already bolted, really _. (He stretches, and stifles a yawn.)_ But then there are the success stories as well. People in really difficult situations, picking themselves up again, and again, and again… they make it worthwhile. _(He arches an eyebrow at his friend, as if to dare him to object.)_ There  _were_  two or three teenage girls for the morning-after pill, of course. And a young bloke still so strung out after one of those sex-and-drugs party marathons that I’d have loved to check him straight into rehab. _(He rolls his eyes.)_ But, yeah. That’s kind of liberating, too - don’t judge, don’t preach, just, well, lock the stable door as firmly as you can _. (He yawns hugely again, then huffs a laugh.) There_ was one man that I’d have loved to see you deduce the pants off though, literally. He came in for an express blood test, but I noticed there was something else bothering him. He kept tugging at the collar of his shirt, as if he was itching or something. So I asked him was there anything else I could help him with, and he showed me this red welt around the back of his neck. It looked flayed – the skin was gone, and it had started suppurating. I cleaned it for him, of course, and bandaged it. But that was an instance when a bit of preaching wouldn’t have gone amiss. _(He shakes his head.)_ I mean, testing your limits is exciting and all that, but  _that_  game clearly went a bit too far, whatever exactly it was. _  
_

_Sherlock lets out a snort of agreement._

JOHN _(leaning comfortably back in his chair):_ So, what about you, then?

SHERLOCK: What about me?

JOHN: I thought you had a new case this morning.

SHERLOCK: Oh, that. _(He picks up the bow of his violin again, and tilts it in his hand, his eyes on how the horsehair catches the light.)_ Just some dead woman in a bathtub, south of the river. _(He uses the bow to point in the appropriate direction.)_ Perfectly average everyday tragedy. Boring. _(He rises from his seat, very deliberately concluding the issue.)_ Well, you look dead on your feet. Better call it a day, if you’re going back there tomorrow morning.

_John nods, and yawns again, then heaves himself out of his chair and pads wearily towards the bathroom._

_Sherlock, in the living room, listens intently for the sound of the bathroom door closing. When it does, he immediately darts over to the desk-cum-dining table between the windows, digs out John’s laptop from under the clutter covering it, opens and starts it. A moment later, he’s already scrolling his way through an overflowing e-mail inbox, his eyes flickering up and down the screen._

SHERLOCK _(in a discontented mutter):_ Oh John, the dross you let clutter up your brain.

_He marks a whole bundle of unread messages from the same sender - presumably alerts to comments left on John’s blog - and deletes them without a second thought. Then he scrolls his way back in time, until his eyes narrow and focus on a message which he opens. He smiles._

SHERLOCK _(triumphantly):_ There we are. Knew you’d keep those.

_The bathroom door opens again. Quicker than lightning, Sherlock shuts the computer and pushes it away out of sight. When John looks in one last time to say goodnight, Sherlock is sitting innocently in his own chair again and typing on his own laptop._

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**_221B Bak_** ** _er Street. On the next morning,_ ** _Sherlock makes his entrance into the kitchen in the same sleeping attire as on the day before, but more than an hour earlier, and also in a much less dramatic manner. He squints sleepily into the bright light while pulling on his dressing gown in what seems to be slow motion. His audience has been halved, too. Mrs Hudson is just entering from the stairs, carrying a tray with a tea pot on it. John is nowhere to be seen. Only a plate with a cooked breakfast, half finished, and an open newspaper next to it bear witness to his earlier presence in the room. Mrs Hudson puts the tray down on the table, and notices the leftovers._

MRS HUDSON _(indignantly):_ Oh, look at that. That won’t do, running off to work with only half a breakfast in his belly!

_Sherlock grunts in what could equally be agreement, protest or indifference. He absentmindedly nicks a - probably cold - rasher of bacon from John’s plate and puts it in his mouth, while pulling the abandoned newspaper towards him with his other hand._

SHERLOCK _(through his mouthful of bacon):_ John went to work already? They don’t open until ten.

MRS HUDSON _(with a shrug):_ Well, he went out only a minute ago. I heard the front door close just as I came out with the tea.

_Sherlock nods, not really listening, his eyes on the newspaper - and then he freezes._

MRS HUDSON _(mildly alarmed):_ Anything wrong, dear?

SHERLOCK _(under his breath):_ Damn _._

_And he’s out of the room and down the stairs at top speed, dressing gown billowing behind him, bare feet slapping hard against the carpet on the stairs and in the downstairs hall, against the stone steps by the front door, and then against the pavement outside No. 221B._

**_Upstairs in the kitchen,_ ** _Mrs Hudson, utterly bewildered, has picked up the newspaper to check what could have made anyone storm out of the house in nothing but pyjamas and dressing gown in early March. The paper is open at a local news page, and from it, Jeanette de Souza looks up at the readers, her mild, serene smile in stark contrast to the sombre headline._

 

North Peckham Primary School Pays Tribute to Teacher Dead in Drowning Accident

 

* * *

 

 **_Out on Baker Street,_ ** _Sherlock is racing down the pavement in the direction of the nearest tube station. The street is busy already, with lots of people on their way to work, and gaggles of children in various uniforms on the way to their schools. Sherlock is getting quite a number of irritated looks from the adults, and pointed fingers and giggles from children, as he runs along, occasionally jostling the passers-by as he winds his way between them._

_A couple of doors down from the entrance to the Baker Street tube station, he finally catches sight of John, who is - of course - properly dressed for the outdoors and walking along at a determined pace, as yet unaware of being pursued by a rather deranged-looking man in a dressing gown and no shoes. Ten yards away from him, Sherlock starts shouting his name._

SHERLOCK: John! John, wait!

_John, recognising the voice, flinches, but then he walks on without turning around._

SHERLOCK: John!

_Sherlock curses under his breath, and with a final burst of speed manages to catch up with John outside a newsagent’s. He grabs him by the sleeve._

SHERLOCK: Wait, for God’s sake!

_Without a word, John shrugs his friend’s hand off and keeps walking, his jaw set in a hard line. Sherlock changes tack, and darts around John to block his way - only to find himself forced to walk backwards in front of his friend to avoid a collision. He’s dancing along rather absurdly on tip-toe, whether from agitation, or cold, or fear that John may step on his bare feet is hard to tell. It’s probably a combination of all three._

SHERLOCK: John, don’t be stupid. Come back, we need to talk.

_That, at last, makes John stop in his tracks._

JOHN _(in an outburst of anger, loudly):_ Oh, really? She was boring when she was still alive, and then she didn’t even manage to die spectacularly enough to get you interested! So what’s there to talk about?

_A small circle of interested onlookers starts forming around the two of them, some laughing openly, some looking rather worried. Some are already getting their phones out. John glances around at them uncomfortably, and instinctively lowers his voice._

JOHN: _You_ get back inside, you bloody idiot. We’ll be the talk of the town.

SHERLOCK: Where are you going?

JOHN: New Scotland Yard. Maybe _they_ won’t tell me a pack of lies. _(He grits his teeth, and his hands ball into fists.)_ And now get out of my way.

_Things hang in the balance for a moment, but then Sherlock steps aside. John walks past him, towards the entrance of the tube station. Sherlock follows him with his eyes, an almost pained expression on his face. The onlookers part to let John through, some relieved, some downright disappointed. But just before John is outside their circle, Sherlock raises his voice to call after him._

SHERLOCK: Alright, I lied.

_John halts again, then turns back, eyebrows raised sceptically. Sherlock closes the distance between them, and leans down to speak to John in a voice too low for their curious audience to hear._

SHERLOCK _(urgently):_ But I don’t know the truth, and I need your help to work it out. _(He attempts a rueful little smile.)_ Now come back inside before I get frostbite on my feet.

 

* * *

 

 **_Back at 221B Baker Street,_ ** _John has settled - or been settled - in his armchair. All his anger that was showing in the street outside seems to have seeped away. He has his head propped up on his hand, apparently digesting what Sherlock has just told him about the strange and suspicious circumstances of Jeanette’s death, the expression on his face completely bleak. Sherlock, who is still in dressing gown and pyjamas, stands leaning against the back of a chair by the desk, arms folded, watching his friend’s evident distress but seeming rather helpless what to do about it._

JOHN _(looking up, in a flat voice):_ So, what exactly do you need my help for? If the autopsy's happening right now, what can we do except wait?

SHERLOCK: I thought -

JOHN: - that you'd impress our friends from the Met, and tell them what happened to her even before Molly Hooper can come up with the lab results to prove it?

SHERLOCK: You can tell me about her. You know, as – _(He gestures awkwardly with his hand.)_ As a person.

JOHN _(snappishly):_ Somebody give you a crash course in grief counselling between last night and now?

_Sherlock locks his brows together at his friend's harsh tone, and it’s Mrs Hudson who saves the day. She comes walking out of the kitchen carrying John’s steaming RAMC mug in one hand and the previously abandoned newspaper in the other._

MRS HUDSON _(to Sherlock, reproachfully):_ Now do give him a break. He’s had a nasty shock.

_She touches John gently on the shoulder, and he gratefully accepts the tea she’s offering him._

MRS HUDSON _(still speaking to Sherlock):_ And what is he supposed to tell you? “Did she have enemies?” Not her, that's for sure. _(She settles down on the edge of Sherlock’s own armchair, and smooths the newspaper out on her lap.)_ Did you even read this through? She had her heart in the right place, that girl. _(She digs her reading glasses out of the pocket of her cardigan, puts them on and starts quoting from the article.)_ ““To say that Ms de Souza will be missed by pupils, parents and fellow teachers alike is a gross understatement,” Headmistress Lucy Walsingham told our paper yesterday. “She was the living and breathing soul of our school. Her love for our children, and her strong belief that it’s every child’s right to develop their talents and make their way in the world, no matter where they come from, shone through everything she did and said.”” _(She pauses to give Sherlock a poignant look over the rim of her glasses, as if to dare him to object.)_ ““We’re in one of the most problematic neighbourhoods of London here,” Ms Walsingham elaborates, “with high rates of broken families, unemployment and crime. That our school has come to be hailed as a beacon of hope and a haven of stability for our pupils in recent years is largely due to Ms de Souza’s indefatigable dedication - “” and so on and so forth. _(Indignantly)_ Who on earth would kill a person like that? _(She turns to John.)_ I never knew she came from such a difficult background herself, by the way. _(To Sherlock, by way of explanation)_ It says so here. _(She reads on.)_ “She was a North Peckham girl herself - ” - that’s the Headmistress again – “ – so she knew exactly how desperately many of our local children need someone to help them unearth their hidden strengths. In a community like ours, where parents are so often absent or unable to provide that kind of support - “

_John cuts her off at this point, but not rudely – he's simply been following his own line of thought._

JOHN: She told me once that everything she was, she owed to her own teachers.

_Sherlock automatically pulls a face at the very idea, and he’s probably lucky that neither of the others notices._

MRS HUDSON _(to John, sympathetically):_ And she was trying to give that back.

_John nods. A gloomy silence descends on the room. Then there’s the ping of a phone. Sherlock, rather relieved at the distraction, goes into the kitchen to find it._

SHERLOCK _(over his shoulder):_ That’s probably Molly with the autopsy results.

JOHN _(checking his watch):_ What, already?

_Sherlock comes ambling back into the living room, phone in hand._

SHERLOCK _(jerking his head at the newspaper in Mrs Hudson's lap):_ Well, with that pathological degree of altruism, there's bound to be a burnout and a reactive depression at some point. All that’s left to determine is the substance she –

MRS HUDSON _(indignantly):_ Sherlock!

_John's face has gone stony._

SHERLOCK _(his eyes on the screen of his phone, reading the latest message):_ Oh _. (To John)_ Sorry, wrong. You’re right, she _isn’t_ boring. I really need to remember that. _(Reading from the screen)_ Lestrade: They've gone through all her stuff at the school. They were expecting to find her computer there, since it wasn’t at her flat. But no. It’s gone the same way as her phone and her appointment calendar, apparently. _(He slides his own phone into the pocket of his dressing gown. With a contented grin)_ And that means we’re back in the realm of unlawful killing. Lovely. _(To Mrs Hudson, nodding at the newspaper)_ So, any more actual facts in there, or is it all just hagiography?

_Mrs Hudson frowns at him, and her evident uncertainty at the exact meaning of the word “hagiography” is all that saves Sherlock from getting an almighty flea put in his ear for not showing proper respect for the dead._

MRS HUDSON _(perusing the article again):_ She’d just been made deputy headmistress, too, it says here.

JOHN: Yeah, I knew that. _(Bitterly)_ That was another thing we were going to celebrate at Christmas.

SHERLOCK _(to John):_ Tell me about her health.

JOHN _(surprised):_ Her health? There was nothing wrong with her. She was very fit, actually. That’s how we met. _(He takes a sip of his tea. When he continues, he addresses Mrs Hudson rather than Sherlock.)_ I’d go to Blackheath on Thursdays for the rugby. She'd go there to play squash with a friend. We’d both stay for drinks at the clubhouse afterwards, got chatting…

_Mrs Hudson nods understandingly._

SHERLOCK: What about her family? Lestrade said there was nobody left.

JOHN _(with a humourless laugh):_ No-one within reach, at any rate. Her mother was an alcoholic, died of liver failure years ago. Jeanette has a younger half-brother, but he’s serving time for nearly knifing a bloke to death. _(To Mrs Hudson, by way of explanation)_ Gang violence. Drug dealing rivalries, or something. _(To Sherlock)_ I actually asked her if she wanted us to look into that, if we could do anything for him. But she said no, it was fair, it was time he came to his senses.

_Mrs Hudson shakes her head sadly._

SHERLOCK: What about her father?

JOHN: He came from Brazil, hence her surname. But he and her mum split up when Jeanette was only a baby, and -

_He breaks off, frowning at his friend. At the mention of Brazil, Sherlock has visibly perked up his ears. But when he doesn’t comment, John continues._

JOHN: - and he went back off home. She had no memories of him at all, she said. But - _(John rubs his hand over his face.)_ I don’t know if there’s anything in it, but while we were together, she was looking into getting back in touch with him. She was actually contacted by a woman in Brazil who might be a cousin of hers at the time, on Facebook. And Jeanette was really excited about it, she said she’d love to go visit her dad and his family over there, if it really was them.

SHERLOCK _(triumphantly):_ Aha! Thank you.

_In a sudden return of his usual confidence and sense of purpose, he strides over to the desk and boots up his laptop. Mrs Hudson and John exchange a puzzled look._

JOHN _(to Sherlock's back, in a feeble attempt at joking):_ What is it, have I given you the name of her murderer?

SHERLOCK: No, but - _(He pulls up the homepage of a webmail service.)_ \- her password.

JOHN: What?

SHERLOCK _(over his shoulder, already typing into the log-in box):_ That new-found enthusiasm of hers for all things Brazilian was too recent to leave a lot of traces in her flat yet. One poster in the hall alone wasn’t a strong enough indicator. But now -

_He rapidly types “ordemeprogresso” into the password field, hits “enter” - and Jeanette de Souza’s e-mail inbox pops up on the screen, open to scrutiny. Sherlock rubs his hands together in happy anticipation. John stands up, and walks over the join Sherlock at the desk._

JOHN _(pointing at the screen, suspiciously):_ How do you even know her e-mail address, if her computer was gone?

SHERLOCK _(in an off-hand tone):_ Oh, I knew you’d keep her messages after she dumped you. People do. Sentiment.

_He starts clicking his way backwards through Jeanette's e-mails._

JOHN _(highly irritated):_ Do you even know how to _spell_ “privacy”, Sherlock? I thought we’d -

_Sherlock turns his head away from the computer to meet John’s eyes. The look in his own is unexpectedly grave._

SHERLOCK: There’s no such thing as privacy in a murder investigation, John.

_They glare at each other for a moment, but then John backs down. With a resigned sigh, he pulls up a chair and settles down at Sherlock’s side so they can go through the evidence together. Behind them, quite forgotten by both of them, Mrs Hudson heaves a silent little sigh, and goes to tidy up in the kitchen._

_The next half hour is a blur of intense research activity, conducted on two computers and two phones at once – maps, timetables, photos, online dictionaries - until eventually, Sherlock falls back into his chair. John finishes an entry in his notebook, then leans back, too._

SHERLOCK: Well. All very shipshape and above board throughout January. She divides the bulk of her online time and attention between three different newsletters relating to educational subjects; a very modest amount of end of season shopping, given her gender and age group; and a paid membership of an online dating service. _(Arching an eyebrow at John)_ Find-The-One.co.uk, Britain’s leading website for those looking for a serious long-term relationship rather than instant gratification. _(John shrugs defensively. )_ But then in February, things get interesting. First, she makes a PayPal payment of five thousand pounds to some organisation or institution called Projeto Meninos da Bahia.

JOHN _(consulting his notebook, where he’s jotted down a timeline):_ On the tenth.

SHERLOCK: At the same time, she stops exchanging Facebook messages with that supposed cousin of hers, and instead starts regularly e-mailing a man called Miguel de Souza. They exchange photos and skype contacts –

JOHN: - and she joins an online language course for Portuguese.

SHERLOCK _(pointing at the screen of his computer, which displays the PDF of a plane ticket):_ A week later, she books a return flight from Heathrow to Salvador de Bahia for the Easter holidays. On the twenty-seventh. And a week after _that_ , she's dead in her London bathtub.

JOHN: Makes no sense. Since when do people die from planning a visit to Brazil?

 

* * *

 

 **_Barts Hospital. Molly Hooper’s lab, later on the same morning._ ** _Sherlock - now finally properly dressed - sits at one of the workbenches, eyes glued to a microscope. He’s alone in the room. The clock on the wall says it’s just after half past eleven._

_The door opens, and Molly Hooper comes walking in. She’s in the full protective gear that she wears for post mortems, only minus the safety goggles, and the state of her garments bear witness that Professor Spilsbury and his disciples have been hard at work all morning. Molly carries a small white ceramic bowl in her gloved hand._

SHERLOCK _(without looking up, in a lazy drawl):_ You’ve taken your time.

MOLLY: We’re not even done yet. I just thought I’d bring you something to tide you over the wait.

_She puts the little bowl onto the bench, next to the microscope. Sherlock, without even looking what exactly it is, reaches into the bowl, clearly expecting biscuits or some other snack - and immediately pulls his hand back, staring in disgusted disbelief at the thick, ill-smelling substance clinging to his fingers. He looks up at Molly, the expression on his face one of pure reproach._

MOLLY _(spluttering in mortification):_ Oh my god, oh my god! I'm so sorry! It's stomach contents! I thought you'd –

_She hastily reaches behind her and plucks a couple of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall there, which she passes to Sherlock with trembling hands._

MOLLY _(while Sherlock wipes his fingers clean, hastily):_ I thought you'd like to take a look. It's, erm – it's all we've got, really. We’re still completely in the dark about everything else. Time of death is definitely Sunday night, between about six and midnight. The water made it a little difficult to be more definite. Most of the toxicology results are in now, too. We’ve checked for all the usual substances in her bloodstream, legal and illegal, and there’s absolutely nothing there.

SHERLOCK _(with a dissatisfied grunt):_ So much for that theory.

_He lobs the used towels in the bin._

MOLLY: There’s no infection either, no trauma, and no sign of cardiovascular trouble. The only thing that’s wrong with her is that she’s dead.

SHERLOCK _(wryly):_ Obstinate girl.

MOLLY _(with a rueful smile):_ Yes, quite. Professor Spilsbury’s seething. He’s taking it personally, I think.

SHERLOCK: But the immediate cause of death was drowning?

MOLLY: Oh yes. But there’s very little water in the lungs. Meaning -

SHERLOCK _(thoughtfully):_ \- that she went quickly.

MOLLY: Very quickly. She can’t have fought for long, if at all. _(The rueful smile returns.)_ If you want to tell John that, too.

SHERLOCK: Mmh. _(Changing the subject abruptly, in an enterprising tone)_ Well, what about sex?

_Molly, yet again completely wrong-footed, blushes crimson._

MOLLY _(stammering):_ What? You - you mean -

SHERLOCK _(a little impatiently):_ Did she have any, before she died?

MOLLY _(cottoning on):_ Oh. You mean _her_. _(She seems at least as relieved as she is embarrassed.)_ No, no, she didn’t. _(Turning an even deeper shade of red, in a small voice)_ But she had hopes.

SHERLOCK: How do you mean?

MOLLY: She had applied an in-situ chemical contraceptive. But it never got... used, as it were.

SHERLOCK _(to himself):_ Well, that confirms the lover.

 _Molly, casting_ _around for a distraction, nods at Sherlock’s microscope._

MOLLY: What’ve you got there, then?

SHERLOCK: Dirt from under her shoes. _(He gestures at a single fashionable black trainer in a lady's size that's sitting further along on the workbench, sole up.)_ But it’s just common old Peckham mud. Nothing to be learned from that.

_Molly smiles, pulls up a stool, sits down on it and hands Sherlock the ceramic bowl with the remnants of Jeanette’s last meal in it._

MOLLY: Well, maybe you can narrow it down a bit.

_Sherlock gives her a sceptical look, as if expecting another practical joke. But then he takes the bowl, and tilts it slightly for the contents to catch the light._

SHERLOCK: Rice... mainly rice. Fragments of cucumber, salmon and… some other fish. Brownish, and with a very different texture. And small dark-green flakes, probably plant matter _. (He looks up.)_ Nori leaves. Sushi. _(He peers at the contents of the bowl again, then – deliberately, this time - dips the tip of his forefinger into it to retrieve a particle of the brownish fish, and brings it close to his face. Molly grimaces, clearly not putting it past him to actually taste it, but to her relief, he only sniffs at it. Sherlock's eyes light up with anticipation.)_ Ah, better and better. You don’t get freshwater eel in your average supermarket sushi box. It's too exclusive for that, both in price and in taste.

MOLLY _(catching on, nodding at Jeanette's shoe):_ And you probably don’t get a huge number of Japanese restaurants in Peckham, either?

SHERLOCK _(happily): Yes._ Finally something to go on!

_He jumps up from his seat and reaches for his coat._

MOLLY _(a little regretfully):_ Well, I’d better get back downstairs then.

SHERLOCK _(deadpan):_ Tell Professor Spilsbury it was pufferfish poisoning.

_In a rare moment of genuine unanimity, for once untainted by any complicated undercurrents, they share a wonderfully mischievous grin._

 

* * *

 

 **_Rye Lane in Peckham._ ** _It’s evening, already dark, but the street is busy with late shoppers and early diners, and well-illuminated by the street lamps and the lights on the shopfronts and in the windows. Sherlock and John, in their coats, are outside a small sushi restaurant, studying the menu displayed in the large window. In the part of the establishment with the takeaway counter, some customers are queuing, but the restaurant itself looks deserted_ _. A conveyor belt with little colourful sushi plates on it moves past empty bar stools. A solitary waitress is wiping down the guest tables._

JOHN _(his eyes on the menu, rather unenthusiastically):_ Is there any eel on here? If not, we might as well skip this one.

SHERLOCK: Nonsense. Third time lucky.

_He moves towards the entrance._

JOHN: Alright, but we’re not having anything this time.

SHERLOCK _(impatiently):_ Of course we are. Restaurateurs are naturally suspicious of official questioning, but they're always communicative to innocent customers.

JOHN: I don’t -

_There’s something tense in his tone that makes Sherlock halt and turn back towards him._

JOHN: I’m not hungry. And I know that’s not the point, but really, I - _(He runs a hand through his hair.)_ This is all a bit too close to home, if you understand _. (Resigned)_ Well, you don’t, of course. But I’m not sure I’m helping much right now. _(He gestures vaguely down the street.)_ Maybe I’d better just -

SHERLOCK _(with a frown):_ Of course you’re helping. You always are. _(He pushes the door open.)_ I’ll have a word with the waitress. You ask the man at the takeaway counter.

 

* * *

 

 **_Inside the restaurant,_ ** _the waitress – a short but sturdy woman with jet black hair tied in a ponytail - greets Sherlock with an automatic smile. In the background, an Asian man in a white t-shirt is chopping more ingredients for his culinary creations. When Sherlock pulls out a photograph of Jeanette - the same that illustrated the newspaper article about her death - and shows it to the waitress, she bites her lip, then hands it back to him._

WAITRESS: Are you the police?

SHERLOCK _(with a smile):_ God forbid.

_The waitress immediately relaxes._

WAITRESS _(half-jokingly, half-serious):_ Then who are you? Her husband?

SHERLOCK: That answers my first question, thank you. What did he look like?

WAITRESS: What, her man?

SHERLOCK _(casually):_ The one who was here with her on Sunday night, yes.

_She shrugs._

WAITRESS: Just a normal guy. Like a thousand others, really.

SHERLOCK: Not particularly noteworthy, would you say?

WAITRESS: Well, he was very sweet. To her, I mean. She wasn’t well, you know, and they left right in the middle of their dinner. She was holding her head, like she had a massive headache or something, and he had his arm around her, really kind, a right gentleman. I asked should I call them a cab, but she said no, it wasn’t far to go.

SHERLOCK _(frowning):_ You _don’t_ serve pufferfish in here, do you?

WAITRESS _(with a laugh):_ God, no! _(Realising the implication, rather worried)_ I hope she’s alright? Have there been any complaints?

SHERLOCK _(dismissing the question):_ They’d never been here together before?

WAITRESS: No, never seen them before, but we only opened a couple of months back. I think I only remember her at all because I was worried that she was getting sick. But she seemed in good hands, so...

SUSHI CHEF _(from behind their backs):_ Chandra?

_While the waitress and Sherlock were talking, he has produced an impressive number of even more little sushi-laden plates that are now waiting to be placed on the conveyor._

WAITRESS _(to Sherlock, apologetically):_ Sorry, but if that’s all, I should get back to -

_She breaks off, her lips still forming the last letter, her eyes fixed on the takeaway counter by the door. Sherlock frowns and turns to see what has captured her attention, but the waitress is already shaking her head._

WAITRESS: Sorry, nothing. _(Uncertainly)_ I - I thought for a moment that I’d just seen the same bloke again, over there.

_She points. The customer queue at the takeaway counter has shortened considerably, and it’s John’s turn now. Through the glass partition separating the takeaway area from the restaurant proper, he can be seen clearly as he talks to the man behind the counter._

WAITRESS _(quickly):_ But maybe I'm wrong, and he’s just the same type. Never mind.

 

* * *

 

 **_A moment later,_ ** _Sherlock re-joins John outside the restaurant._

JOHN: I got nothing. You?

_Sherlock starts walking down the street, hands in the pockets of his coat._

SHERLOCK _(curtly, looking straight ahead):_ She was here with a man on Sunday night.

JOHN _(hurrying to keep pace, excitedly):_ And? Could they describe him?

SHERLOCK: No. Just a man like a thousand others, the waitress said.

_He walks on, leaving John looking after him with a frown._

 

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

**_Baker Street, on the next morning._ ** _A car comes driving up and halts at the kerb just outside No. 221B, engine running. Behind the wheel is Sally Donovan. Greg Lestrade, in the passenger seat, is about to open the car door to let himself out when his Sergeant holds him back._

SALLY: And you’re really sure it’s wise to tell him about it?

_Lestrade slumps back into his seat. They’ve obviously been over this before._

LESTRADE _(wearily):_ Sally, if there’s any truth to your theory, then we definitely want Sherlock Holmes on our side. That means we’ve got to keep him in the loop. Besides, he’ll notice if we don’t.

_Sally turns off the ignition._

SALLY _(a little snappishly):_ Oh, it’s _my_ theory now? A name’s a name, and _I_ didn’t put it there.

LESTRADE _(with a sigh):_ I know. But look - Sherlock's sharing things with us, too. Like all that stuff that he found out about her going to Brazil. And besides, what would _you_ do? Pull our – our _suspect_ in for questioning straight away? On what grounds?

SALLY: Oh, just checking up on all her contacts of the past couple of months. Perfectly routine.

LESTRADE: And what do you think would come of that? A confession? _(He snorts.)_ We’ve got absolutely nothing to go on, remember? We don’t know how, and we don’t know why. I mean, seriously! Why would _anyone_ want to kill her?

SALLY: Morbid jealousy? “If I can’t have her, nobody can”?

LESTRADE: Do you really think he’s the type for that?

SALLY _(gravely):_ Do you know him well enough to tell? Does anyone?

_Lestrade gives her a very unhappy look, but he has no answer._

SALLY _(restarting the engine):_ Well, on your head be it.

 _She waits for her boss to get out of the car, and then heads back into the heavy traffic._  

 

* * *

 

 **_Upstairs in the living room of No. 221B_ ** _, Sherlock is at his computer when Greg Lestrade enters. John is nowhere to be seen._

SHERLOCK _(his eyes on the screen):_ Projeto Meninos da Bahia.

LESTRADE _(wryly):_ Still sounds like some tropical illness to me.

SHERLOCK _(looking up at his visitor):_ It doesn't exist.

LESTRADE: What?

SHERLOCK: An organisation in Brazil called Projeto Meninos da Bahia. It doesn't exist. It has a plausible name to be a charity for street kids, it has an e-mail address, and it takes donations - but all the search engines come up with is always just the same broken link.

LESTRADE _(dismissively):_ Well, bad website maintenance isn't a crime.

SHERLOCK: Five thousand pounds, Lestrade, going to a phantom charity from the account of a woman who's found murdered less than four weeks later? I'd be worried.

LESTRADE: Well, we'll have our Brazilian colleagues follow that up. They're already looking for Miguel de Souza for us. _(He walks over and sits down uninvited on the leather sofa by The Wall, then looks around as if he's just noticed John's absence.)_ John's not in, is he?

SHERLOCK: He's at the clinic.

LESTRADE _(in a sympathetic tone):_ Well, I don't blame him. How's he doing?

SHERLOCK _(closing his laptop, curtly):_ Oh, he's fine _. (Lestrade looks extremely unconvinced. Sherlock hurries to change the subject.)_ Well, what brings you here today? _(He rises from his seat.)_ Have you found any of the missing items yet?

LESTRADE _(heavily):_ No. We've found a new corpse.

_Sherlock freezes, thunderstruck. His lips open, then they close again without a sound coming out._

LESTRADE: Or an old corpse, to be precise. Looks like he's done it before. _(He leans back, stretching out his arm along the back of the sofa.)_ I got an e-mail this morning at work, from a PC Joseph Crossley, of the Lancashire Constabulary in Blackpool. He said he saw about Jeanette de Souza's death online, on a news site, and they had a case half a year ago that reminded him of it. He gave me his number. I called him back straight away.

SHERLOCK _(recovering his composure, pointedly):_ His _private_ number?

LESTRADE: Yeah. September last, he told me, they found one Alice Burnham, a nurse at Victoria Hospital in Blackpool, twenty-eight years old and single, dead at home in her bathtub - no sign of a break-in, no traces of violence on the body. The inquest ruled that it was death by accident. The medical examiner concluded that Miss Burnham must have had a sudden epileptic fit in the bath, lost consciousness, and drowned.

SHERLOCK: And PC Crossley disagrees.

LESTRADE: Strongly.

SHERLOCK: Why?

_He begins pacing up and down in front of the coffee table, his unease at the unexpected news yearning for an outlet._

LESTRADE: Crossley’s got a little girl, she’s four, and she's got epilepsy, too. So he knows exactly what a fit looks like. First they go stiff like a board, he told me, then they start cramping and flailing around like mad, and then they fall unconscious and their bodies relax, limp as a rag. So if Alice Burnham sank under water and died in the third stage of a fit like that, there’s no way, Crossley says, that her body could have got into the position it was in when they found it.

SHERLOCK: Which was?

LESTRADE: Head under water, torso resting on the bottom of the bath, legs up in -

SHERLOCK _(stopping short):_ _Exactly_ like Jeanette?

LESTRADE: Almost exactly, except Alice Burnham had her legs out straight, and her feet were up on the end of the bath. And there was something else. Crossley also said she was clutching a towel in her hand, so hard that when they took her body away, they could barely get it out of her fingers. It looked like she’d put it behind her head, like a cushion. And when she slipped down under the water, she must have made a grab for it in her panic, but of course there was no help there.

SHERLOCK _(pensively):_ Drowning men will grasp at straws, they say.

LESTRADE: Yeah, but like Crossley said - epileptics go limp in the third stage of a fit. She’d have opened her fingers and released the towel then. But she didn't. She died still clutching it.

SHERLOCK: Why didn’t Crossley point all this out at the time?

LESTRADE: He says he tried, but nobody listened. _(He sighs.)_ He'd only just joined the force. It was only his second week on the beat, after the initial training course, his very first dead body and all that. And he was only supposed to stand guard at the door of the house and fend off onlookers anyway, not to tell his superiors how to do their job. Of course he wasn’t going to make himself a nuisance and risk his fledgling career, in his second week. He might still be risking it now, contacting me off the record like that.

_Sherlock starts pacing again._

SHERLOCK: You said there was no sign of violence on that body either?

LESTRADE: Not according to the inquest. I pulled the records and checked.

_Sherlock has reached the right hand window of the room, and peers down into the street._

SHERLOCK _(over his shoulder):_ And what of the post mortem? Medication? Drugs? Poison?

LESTRADE: There was no post mortem.

SHERLOCK _(turning sharply back towards his guest): What?_

LESTRADE _(ruefully):_ There was no post mortem. Her parents didn’t want one, and the coroner saw no reason to order it. The Burnhams are Christian Scientists. They disapprove of post mortems on principle.

SHERLOCK: There are nurses in NHS hospitals who believe that prayer is the only permissible medical care? _(With a wry grin)_ That explains a lot, actually.

LESTRADE: No, no, Alice herself had left all of that behind her. The inquest heard that her parents had disowned her because she’d turned her back on their faith and went into a career in modern medicine, after leaving school. She was their only child, so it must have been quite a blow. They hadn’t been in touch with her for years. But they were still her next of kin, so of course when she died, their wishes were respected. And they were content to put their daughter’s death down to -

SHERLOCK _(sharply):_ \- an act of God? I hope those pious parents _– (He pops out the “p”s disdainfully.)_ \- have been investigated very thoroughly indeed?

LESTRADE: Oh, come on. Christian Scientists may have some rather quaint views on modern healthcare, but they definitely don’t have a tradition of offing their apostates.

SHERLOCK _(straightening his jacket, peremptorily):_ Put me in touch.

_He's already on his way to where his coat hangs behind the door to the room._

LESTRADE: What, with Joe Crossley? I think he’s told us all he -

SHERLOCK: No, with Mr and Mrs Burnham, of course.

LESTRADE _(folding his arms):_ Certainly not.

SHERLOCK _(impatiently):_ Why not? That death in Blackpool was clearly _not_ the result of an epileptic fit. That coroner was either a particularly asinine specimen of his kind, or he was paid to pretend to be. At any rate, it's time someone asked her parents the _relevant_ questions _. (He takes out his phone and starts typing on it.)_ Next train from Euston to Blackpool is at eleven thirty. _(He looks back up at Lestrade and grins confidently.)_ I'll be back for dinner, with the case solved.

LESTRADE: No, you won't.

SHERLOCK _(exasperated):_ What?

LESTRADE: I’m not going to let you loose on a pair of grieving elderly people, you know!

SHERLOCK: I'll take John. Happy?

LESTRADE _(in a carefully neutral tone):_ John's at work.

SHERLOCK _(sarcastically):_ Oh, yeah, right. And still paying you to remind me of it, it seems.

_Lestrade pulls a rather pained face, but doesn't protest._

 

* * *

 

 **_A small living room in a terraced house_ ** _that could be anywhere in England, and is in fact in a suburb of Blackpool, in Lancashire. The place is modestly furnished, and seems entirely devoid of colour – sand-coloured sofa and armchairs, white carpet, white wallpaper and curtains. Even the few books on the bookshelf next to the fireplace look altogether lifeless and uninviting, except for a handsome old family Bible that occupies the place of honour. The only things in the room that break this monotonous pattern are set up on the mantelpiece, but even they are in a rigid alignment that makes them look more like sacred objects in a shrine, rather than actual articles of daily use. There's a worn teddy bear there, with a red bow around its neck; a toy figurine of a unicorn with a shiny pink mane and tail; a souvenir mug with a Lake District scenery on it; and a portrait photograph of a schoolgirl in her uniform, probably during her Sixth Form years, more scowling than smiling into the camera from under a heavy fringe of dark hair._

 _On the sofa, an elderly couple is sitting side by side, both of them dressed in plain clothes as colourless as their surroundings, as if something has sapped all the joy in their life from them._ _Tea has been served and poured, with a steaming cup placed before each of the couple's guests – Sherlock and Greg Lestrade, each in an armchair. Mr Burnham, a lean, tall man already slightly bowed by age, his face almost disappearing behind a pair of large horn-rimmed glasses, is in the process of answering a question._

MR BURNHAM _(addressing Lestrade):_ We're sorry, Inspector, but we really don't know anything about Alice’s life in her last months. Nothing of her friends, and nothing of her work.

MRS BURNHAM: We learned only after she’d died that she’d recently qualified as a nursing instructor. The people from the hospital said she was really happy with her new job, and hurled herself into it with real enthusiasm. That was a surprise to us. We'd thought at the time that the signs were pointing in quite a different direction.

MR BURNHAM _(in response to Sherlock’s and Lestrade’s questioning looks):_ We’d actually been hoping for a reconciliation.

LESTRADE: Why’s that?

MR BURNHAM: A Reader from one of our congregations in London contacted us about a week before Alice died. He said she'd been in touch with him.

LESTRADE: In touch about what?

MR BURNHAM: He said that was confidential. But she must have told him how things stood between her and us, so he concluded that we’d be grateful for any sign of life from her.

MRS BURNHAM: He meant it as a kindness, you know.

MR BURNHAM: Of course we thought that it was about a matter of faith. So we were hoping that she might have finally realised that she was on a wrong path. But then of course events proved us wrong.

_Mrs Burnham lets out a little sniff. Her husband comfortingly takes her hand into his own._

LESTRADE: How so?

MR BURNHAM: She died in a sudden onset of epilepsy, the coroner said.

LESTRADE: Yes ...?

MR BURNHAM _(with utmost conviction):_ If she'd rediscovered the power of prayer by then, she wouldn't have died. Prayer is healing.

 _There is an awkward silence. Lestrade glances uncertainly at Sherlock, but Sherlock seems so deep in his own thoughts that even this remarkable statement fails to incense him._  

SHERLOCK: Who exactly in London did she talk to?

MR BURNHAM: To Reader Loud, of the Fourth Church of Christ, Scientist, in Acton.

_Mrs Burnham detaches her hand from her husband's, and rises from her seat._

MRS BURNHAM: I'll find you his number.

_While Mrs Burnham walks over to a sideboard where their telephone is placed and starts looking through an address book, Sherlock continues to question her husband._

SHERLOCK: What happened to her flat, and her things?

MR BURNHAM: We took care of that, of course. Her clothes and her books and movies and CDs and all that, we took to a charity shop. They weren't exactly – they were very much of the world. We had no use for any of that.

_Mrs Burnham comes walking back to their little group with a piece of paper in her hand, which she hands to Sherlock._

MRS BURNHAM _(with a slightly reproachful look at her husband):_ We did keep some of her things, of course, as mementoes. _(She nods towards the items on the mantelpiece.)_ Like Hugglebear...

_Mrs Burnham smothers another sudden sob in her handkerchief. Mr Burnham shifts uncomfortably in his seat._

SHERLOCK: What about her computer?

MR BURNHAM _(readily):_ We gave that away, too. There was a fellow Christian Scientist hereabouts at the time, a young woman just starting university. Her family wasn’t all that well-off, so we asked her did she want it, and she was happy to take it with her to London.

MRS BURNHAM _(assiduously):_ I can find you her number, too.

 

* * *

 

 **_Early evening on the M40._ ** _Lestrade and Sherlock, on their way back from Blackpool in Lestrade's car, have reached the outskirts of London. The dark woods and fields that were lining the motorway until now have given way to more urban surroundings. Street lamps and lights in the windows of the nearby houses are starting to twinkle through the gloom. The traffic on the road grows heavier by the minute. Lestrade, behind the wheel, slows the car down accordingly._

LESTRADE _(resigned):_ Ah, six p.m. on the Westway. Isn't it lovely when you know you're home.

_Their car joins an endless queue of red taillights stretching out ahead of them with no end in sight, and comes to a halt. Lestrade takes his hands off the steering wheel and stretches, rolling his shoulders until they creak. Sherlock is looking out of his car window into the twilight, brooding._

LESTRADE: You do realise we just drove five hundred miles for two London phone numbers.

SHERLOCK _(still looking out of the window):_ _You_ drove five hundred miles. We could have taken turns.

_Lestrade turns his head sharply in Sherlock's direction._

LESTRADE: _You_ drive? _(Annoyed)_ Couldn't have mentioned that earlier, could you?

_Sherlock, still looking out of the window, smiles. Lestrade shakes his head. At a snail's pace, the car moves on a couple of lengths. Then they halt again._

LESTRADE: Anyway, what's our next step?

SHERLOCK: _Your_ next step is to get that computer off the young student. _(He takes out his phone and types on it rapidly. A moment later, Lestrade's own phone in his pocket pings.)_ That's where you'll find her. Get your techs to recover anything belonging to Alice Burnham that they can still find on it. And get Alice's bank and credit card details. Any transaction in her last couple of months exceeding a few hundred pounds is of interest. Especially the ones with seemingly charitable recipients. There will be something. The similarities are too striking.

LESTRADE: What similarities? I mean, apart from the fact that they both drowned in a bathtub for no conceivable reason, what's there to link them?

SHERLOCK: You mean, a lantern-jawed Lancashire nurse who was fairly smothered with entirely misguided parental affection, and a pretty London teacher with a half-Brazilian and wholly dysfunctional family background can't possibly have anything in common? Look beneath the surface for once, Lestrade. They couldn't be more alike.

_The car moves on, and they manage about half a mile before being brought up short in the next traffic jam. Meanwhile, Sherlock elaborates._

SHERLOCK: Firstly, they were very dedicated to their work, both of them. They chose jobs that require long years of training, and a high stress tolerance - and they both threw themselves into them with a great deal of idealism. Serving others was the driving force for them both. And they were successful – they'd already climbed high in their respective careers by the time they died. Alice was very young for a nursing instructor. And few teachers make it to deputy headmistress in just seven years, like Jeanette did.

LESTRADE: No reason to kill them. Or are you saying this is about professional jealousy?

_Sherlock only snorts._

SHERLOCK: Secondly, and just as importantly, they may both have been outwardly successful and well-adapted, and in daily contact with dozens and dozens of people. But they were ultimately very much alone in the world. Estranged from what family they still had, there was something sorely missing in their lives that no workaholic attitude could mask forever. And that made them vulnerable.

LESTRADE: Well, what was it?

SHERLOCK _(letting the word roll off his tongue):_ Love.

LESTRADE: Hmm.

_There is a silence during which both men let their minds wander for a while, if probably in very different directions. Then Sherlock breaks it again._

SHERLOCK: Well, you do your homework now, and I'll do mine.

LESTRADE: Which is?

SHERLOCK: I'm going to have a little chat with the curiously named Reader Loud.

LESTRADE _(drily):_ Don't let them convert you.

SHERLOCK: No danger of that. _(He flashes Lestrade a sudden, very wicked grin.)_ Or could _you_ imagine a life without tobacco, alcohol and extra-marital sex?

_Without waiting for an answer, he unfastens his seatbelt, opens the door and starts getting out of the still stationary car._

LESTRADE _(taken aback):_ Oy, what're you doing?

SHERLOCK: Taking the tube from the station over there. _(He gestures in the direction of the residential area adjoining the motorway.)_ It’ll be packed, too, but at least it’ll move. Enjoy the rush hour, Inspector.

_He taps two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute, slams the door shut, swings himself over the crash barrier separating the traffic lane from the residential street beyond, and disappears down the bushy bank. Lestrade, who has been looking after him in disbelief, finally turns his attention back to the traffic – and finds himself at twenty yards' distance from the car in front of his, and at the receiving end of a very irritated chorus of horns from the ones in line behind him._

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

**_Christian Science Reading Room, Acton. Night time._ ** _A small retail shop in a row of similar modest establishments on the local high street has been converted into a Christian Science Reading Room. From outside, through the large window, bookshelves can be seen to line the walls, displaying Bibles and other religious publications. The sign in the glass door says “Closed”, but the room is brightly lit._

_Inside, in a corner of the room away from the window, a large black man, carefully dressed in a grey suit, bearded and bespectacled, sits at a desk, his hands folded on its surface, an epitome of respectability. Opposite him sits Sherlock, still in his coat, leaning back in his chair and looking surprisingly at ease in these surroundings. When he speaks, it’s in an almost genial tone, and to a casual observer, there is nothing in it that betrays how utterly factitious it is._

SHERLOCK: Well, Mr Loud, as I said, Alice’s parents have assured me that they want nothing more than to put their minds at rest about the spiritual wellbeing of her daughter at the time of her death. That’s all they’ve asked me to look into. They acknowledge that you meant it kindly when you let them know that she was alive and seemed well, but I’m sure you’ll understand that her contacting you raised more questions for them than it answered. _(He crosses his legs.)_ So, I know you told them it was a confidential matter. But now, after her death, wouldn’t you agree that it might do more good than harm to disclose what exactly was worrying her, and what she required your guidance on? _(He smiles a particularly winning smile.)_ Alice’s parents’ greatest hope is that she may have repented her decision to leave her faith before she died. They’d be overjoyed to hear that confirmed.

READER LOUD _(slowly, choosing his words with care):_ Well… I understand. Yes. But - _(He clears his throat.)_ I, erm – I must confess I'm very surprised to hear them bring this up again, after such a long time.

SHERLOCK _(sententiously):_ Some wounds are slow to heal.

_Reader Loud leans forward in his chair._

READER LOUD _(in a suddenly very serious tone):_ And there is no healing but in prayer. Illness is an illusion of the mind, Mr Holmes. It is nothing but the physical manifestation of impure thoughts, of the separation of man from God. They say Alice Burnham died in an epileptic fit. We need to know no more than that to determine the state of her relationship with God at the time of her death, I'm afraid. _(Censoriously)_ As her parents should know. 

_Sherlock heroically suppresses an urge to grab Reader Loud by the throat and shake some sense into him. Instead, he gives an almost nonchalant shrug._

SHERLOCK _(in a deliberately casual tone):_ What would it tell you about the state of her relationship with God if you knew that she was murdered in cold blood?

_Reader Loud sits up with a jolt._

READER LOUD _(incredulously):_ She – she was _what?_

SHERLOCK: Murdered in cold blood. _(He regards his counterpart with narrowed eyes.)_ Would that induce you to be more forthcoming about the nature of her conversation with you, days before her death?

_Reader Loud sinks back into his seat. A slight sheen of sweat breaks out on his brow, and he wipes it away carefully with a folded handkerchief. There’s nothing left now of his self-righteous attitude from a moment before. Again, Sherlock demonstrates remarkable self-control, this time by not allowing himself to indulge in the triumphant grin that’s visibly tugging at the corners of his mouth._

READER LOUD _(defensively):_ Well, in that case... _(He studies his hands for a moment, then looks back up.)_ I believe she'd met a man.

SHERLOCK _(raising one eyebrow in polite enquiry):_ A man?

READER LOUD: Yes. She asked me to confirm whether a young man by the name of Henry Williams was, or had ever been, a member of our congregation.

SHERLOCK: Henry Williams.

READER LOUD: Yes, that’s the name she gave me. A very common name, of course, so it took me a moment to make sure. I checked the register. We'd only had one Henry Williams here at our church in recent years, and he'd just passed away at the blessed age of eighty-seven. So he was clearly not who Alice was looking for. Then we have two more families with the surname Williams among us, but neither of them have a son of suitable age named Henry. Besides, none of the young Williams men would fit the description Alice gave me.

SHERLOCK _(still in a carefully neutral tone):_ She gave you a description?

READER LOUD _(quickly):_ Well, no. I just mentioned that both our current Williams families are West Indian, but she replied that she was looking for a white man.

SHERLOCK: Wasn't it a rather strange enquiry?

READER LOUD: Not at all. We generally advise our young people to choose their spouses from our own circle. 

SHERLOCK _(honestly surprised):_ You mean that Alice wanted to _marry_ this Henry Williams?

READER LOUD: Oh, she didn’t say that, not in so many words. But I assumed that she was looking for confirmation that a young man who had caught her eye was indeed a fellow believer.

SHERLOCK _(crossing his arms):_ But Alice was no longer a believer herself.

READER LOUD: Yes, I know. But it would not have been the first time one of our young had found their way back into the fold after having been astray in the world for a while, with the help of a loving guiding hand.

_He smiles, if a little forcedly. Sherlock responds exactly in kind._

SHERLOCK: How did Alice react when you told her you knew no Henry Williams?

READER LOUD: She seemed disappointed. I comforted her, and I told her that it was maybe just a misunderstanding. We're not the only congregation in London. So I told her I’d ask around at our other places here. She thanked me, and hung up. I didn’t give this top priority, I confess. But a couple of days later I had got around to doing the promised research, and I left a message on her answerphone to tell her that I’d found no Henry Williams of her description at any of our other places in London, either.

SHERLOCK: Did she ever call you back?

READER LOUD: No. _(Sadly)_ It was only months later, and by pure chance, that I met a fellow Scientist from Blackpool, and he told me the whole sad story.

SHERLOCK: Do you remember on what exact day you called her back?

READER LOUD: No, I’m sorry, I really don't. Is it relevant? _(Suddenly deeply disconcerted, as the meaning of the question sinks in)_ You're not saying that -

SHERLOCK: - Henry Williams is her murderer? _(With a very lopsided grin)_ No, put your mind at rest. How can he be, when he doesn't even exist? _(He rises from his chair and holds out his hand to the Reader.)_ Thank you for the information.

_Reader Loud slowly rises from his own seat and takes Sherlock's hand._

READER LOUD _(in a conciliatory voice):_ In the end, we all strive for the truth, don't we, Mr Holmes? I will pray for the success of your investigation.

SHERLOCK _(with a glaringly artificial smile):_ I'm sure that will make all the difference.

 

* * *

 

 

 **_Outside Greg Lestrade's office at New Scotland Yard. Night time._ ** _The lights are out almost everywhere in the open office space, and everybody seems to have gone home – everybody except Sally Donovan, who is sitting at her desk in a pool of light from the reading lamp, head in hand, looking through a file. Everything is quiet, and there is nothing to be heard but the low humming of the ventilation, and the occasional rustling of the pages as she reads. She pauses when she reaches a page showing a large-scale photograph of a blonde, rather plump woman not much older than Sally herself, and regards it for a moment with her brows drawn together._

_There’s the click of a door opening at the far end of the room, and Greg Lestrade comes in, still in his coat, carrying a laptop under his arm. Sally looks up, closes the file and smiles in welcome._

SALLY: Good to see you. Did you get anywhere? Except to Blackpool and back, I mean?

_Lestrade walks up to her desk, and carefully places the laptop – a simple, rather outdated model – on its surface._

LESTRADE: I don't know. _(He nods at the computer.)_ We'll have to wait and see what the techs make of this.

SALLY: Alice Burnham's?

LESTRADE: Formerly, yes. Sherlock insisted that we get our hands on it. I thought we should know better than to disregard his pointers.

SALLY: You’re sure of that? Even in this case?

LESTRADE: Well, to me, it looks like he’s really got his teeth into this. He was just like always, you know, nose right down on the trail all the time, no rest for the wicked. I could swear he really means to work it out.

SALLY _(doubtfully):_ Or he's just doing a very good job pretending.

_Lestrade settles down on the edge of her desk, shaking his head. Sally moves her chair back to give him some space, and crosses her arms._

SALLY: Would be like him, wouldn't it? _(She purses her lips.)_ Have you actually checked that PC Crossley is real?

_Lestrade stares at Sally in disbelief._

LESTRADE _(after a moment, in a deliberately sensible voice):_ Alice Burnham is real, Sally. I've seen the records of the inquest, and I've seen with my own eyes how her parents are grieving for her. She did drown in her bath, and -

SALLY: I'm not contesting _that_.

_There is a silence. Lestrade digs the tips of his forefinger and thumb into the corners of his eyes, rubbing at them like a tired child._

LESTRADE: So you mean that the two cases  _aren’t_ connected? And he took me on a wild goose chase all the way to Blackpool and back just to -

_He breaks off, too upset by the idea to voice it aloud._

SALLY: - throw dust in our eyes? _(With a shrug)_ Either that, or he may just have found it extremely convenient to remove you from London for a day.

LESTRADE _(looking up at her sharply):_ What is it you're saying now? That we'll soon find a third woman dead in her bath, with no good reason why she should be?

SALLY _(gravely):_ That would make her the fourth, actually.

LESTRADE: You’ve found another?

SALLY: Well, you told me to look, after you'd talked to Crossley this morning. _(She picks up the slim folder she was reading in when Lestrade entered.)_ October 2009, Herne Bay, Kent. Beatrice Mundy, single, thirty-seven, dead in her bath with no signs of violence on her body, and everybody happy to assign her demise to natural causes.

_Lestrade hesitantly takes the file from her._

LESTRADE: October 2009? They’d not even met back then.

SALLY _(coolly):_ As far as we know.

_Lestrade squeezes his eyes shut in a grimace of almost physical pain._

LESTRADE: God, just how deep does this go _? (He opens his eyes again, and looks almost pleadingly at his colleague.)_ What do we do?

SALLY _(with biting irony):_ Let them both get away with it?

 

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

**_New Scotland Yard, on the next morning,_ ** _presents a very different face to the world than on the night before. Greg Lestrade's office floor is teeming with police officers again, both in uniform and in plain clothes, and there's a constant hum of activity – phones ringing, snatches of conversation, people passing to and fro carrying documents, files and coffee mugs._

_Like two tallships sailing side by side through the hustle and bustle, Lestrade and Sherlock are making their way towards the Detective-Inspector's office, Lestrade talking busily, Sherlock silent._

LESTRADE: - and four thousand pounds drawn out from Alice Burnham's bank account about a fortnight before her death are definitely unaccounted for. The parents don't recall finding a large amount of cash in her flat, and there was no evidence of any recent purchases of hers to explain it either. It was about a third of her entire savings. She'd just had a pay rise, of course, when she became a nursing instructor. But she hadn't had time to save a lot yet.

_They turn a corner. Sherlock almost flattens a young uniformed constable against the wall in the process, but barely even notices._

SHERLOCK: Well, that fits in with Jeanette de Souza's sudden generosity towards those non-existing Brazilian street kids.

LESTRADE: Yeah, I’m afraid it does. I just want to know, since when has it become lethal to make donations to a good cause?

SHERLOCK: Donations to an _unknown_ cause, Lestrade. And remember, Jeanette's generosity even extended to giving away her computer, her phone and her appointment calendar. _(Emphatically)_ They're not giving that money away. They're relieved of it, and then they die.

_They have reached the door of Lestrade's office. By it, Sally Donovan stands waiting for them._

LESTRADE _(to Sherlock):_ So you mean someone hacked Jeanette's PayPal account and made a payment to themselves? But Alice drew off the four grand in person, at her local bank branch, and I suppose someone would have noticed it if she’d done it with a gun to her head.

SHERLOCK _(stubbornly):_ There _is_ a pattern there.

LESTRADE _(opening the door to his office invitingly):_ Well, then tell me how our third bride in the bath fits into it.

SHERLOCK _(walking past him into the room, more irritated than surprised):_ “Bride in the bath”?

SALLY _(behind Sherlock's back, pointedly):_ We thought that would make a snappy blog title.

_Lestrade gives her the slightest look of warning. Sherlock, who just then turns around to glance at Sally in annoyance, misses it completely._

 

* * *

 

 **_A yellow and white Southeastern Railway train_ ** _is making its way past the green fields and meadows of Kent, rumbling and rattling along at a very moderate pace from London to the seaside resort of Herne Bay. **Inside an almost empty carriage** , a group of seats is occupied by Sherlock and John in their coats, sitting vis-à-vis by a window, deep in conversation. Sherlock is obviously in the process of relating the results of Scotland Yard's latest research into suspicious deaths in bathtubs to John. _

JOHN: And that happened when exactly?

_He asks the question calmly, in marked contrast to his obvious unease when they were last investigating the case together, two days before at the Japanese restaurant._

SHERLOCK: On the second of October, 2009. That night Beatrice Mundy, known as Bessie to her friends, died in the bathtub of her home in Herne Bay. She was found there by her domestic help the next morning. The inquest ruled that it was death from natural causes.

_John raises his eyebrows questioningly._

SHERLOCK: There was a family history of cardiovascular disease. Mundy’s father had died of a heart attack only a few months previously, and so had _his_ brother and father before him.

JOHN: Ah.

SHERLOCK: Beatrice Mundy’s own GP, a Doctor Frank French, gave evidence at the inquest that she had a heightened risk for that sort of thing herself. She was a smoker, she was overweight, she got no exercise apart from walking her dog, and she had a stressful lifestyle. She’d taken over her father’s business after his death.

JOHN: But she'd never been diagnosed with a heart condition herself?

SHERLOCK _(with an appreciative smile at the question):_ Never positively, no.

JOHN: What sort of business was it?

SHERLOCK: Cars. Mercedes East Kent.

_John gives a soundless whistle at the implications._

JOHN: Not just any cars, then. And Doctor French’s evidence coincided with the results of the post mortem? _(But before Sherlock can answer, he holds up a hand with a wry grin.)_ No, let me guess - there was no post mortem?

SHERLOCK: Exactly. Like with Alice Burnham in Blackpool, nobody thought it necessary. And this time, there wasn’t even any family to consult. Beatrice Mundy was an only child, and her sole surviving relative, her mother, was living in a private nursing home. She suffered from severe dementia. It seems doubtful whether her daughter’s death registered with her at all.

JOHN: And of course Bessie’s body was found in the same odd position as Alice’s and Jeanette’s?

SHERLOCK: No, she was - are you sure you actually want to hear this?

_John looks up in surprise at this sudden fit of human concern on the part of his flatmate. But there’s no hint of irony in Sherlock’s expression._

JOHN _(wryly):_ Bit late now, isn’t it? No, seriously, it’s all right. It’s – _(He seems to be searching for the right words.)_ This is what we do, isn’t it _? (He gestures around, encompassing not only the carriage but their whole journey and its purpose.)_ Clear things up. Set things right. So it’s all good, really.

SHERLOCK _(not entirely convinced):_ Sure?

JOHN: It might be a while before I’ll start enjoying sushi again.

SHERLOCK: I’m sure we can find a way to accommodate you there.

_They exchange a fleeting smile, and then Sherlock immediately delves back into his account of Beatrice Mundy’s death._

SHERLOCK: Bessie Mundy was found floating face down, according to the testimony of the cleaning woman at the inquest. But it was a large bathtub, triangular, with a jacuzzi feature and everything. As you've guessed correctly, they were well off, the Mundys. Lots of room to drown in that one.

JOHN: And the police weren't involved at all?

SHERLOCK: No. The cleaning woman only called an ambulance. Dr French, the GP, came as well. His surgery is just down the road. He signed the death certificate. Nobody seems to have had any reason to suspect foul play.

JOHN: But if this was the same killer every time, how does he choose his victims? First Kent, then Blackpool, then London. A businesswoman, a nurse, a teacher. There’s no rhyme or reason to it.

SHERLOCK: That’s what we’re trying to find out.

JOHN: And you no longer think that this has anything to do with Jeanette’s plans to travel to Brazil?

SHERLOCK: Only indirectly.

_John waits for a moment for his friend to elaborate, but when Sherlock doesn’t, John lets it go, too._

JOHN: It’s pretty spooky though, isn’t it? I mean, technically - how does he make them drown and never leave a trace? Can he control their actions somehow, without ever touching them? Is it some sort of psychological coercion? Or does he make them _want_ to die?

SHERLOCK _(in a mildly mocking tone):_ Well, a murderer who kills with supernatural powers is certainly still missing in my collection. _(He shakes his head decidedly.)_ No. No psychological pressure, not even a threat of death, not even a gun pointed at their heads could overcome their bodies’ internalised reflex to struggle back to the surface when submerged. Even under hypnosis, people can’t be induced to inflict actual physical harm on themselves against their will. Believe it or not, there’s been research done on that. There’s no way.

JOHN: Hmm. ( _He looks out of the window in silence for a moment, then slowly shakes his head.)_ Three well-nigh perfect murders in as many years.

SHERLOCK _(deadpan) **:**_ I know. He’s brilliant.

JOHN _(turning back towards his friend, with a very lopsided smile):_ I’m sure he’d be proud to hear you say so.

 

* * *

 

 **_In the seaside town of Herne Bay,_ ** _Sherlock and John come walking down Central Parade, the broad seafront street that spans the length of the town along the south coast of the Thames Estuary. The day is rather windy, and as early in the year as this, the beach and the marina are practically deserted. Terraced houses from the Victorian period line the town side of the street, some neatly restored and well-kept, some clearly having seen better times. In the background looms the absurdly oversized Victorian clock tower that is the town’s landmark. Sherlock and John are heading straight towards a domed glass-and-iron pavilion from the same period. By the stacks of folded-up chairs and tables waiting for the sun on a patio outside, it houses a café or a restaurant._

JOHN: How did you find her so quickly, by the way?

_They reach the pavilion, and Sherlock pushes the door open._

SHERLOCK: How many Vasilescus would you expect to find in a backwater like this?

 

* * *

 

 **_A little later,_ ** _Sherlock and John are installed in the pavilion café, opposite an obese woman of about sixty, dyed auburn hair carefully permed, doughy face carefully made-up, but dressed entirely in black to indicate her widowhood - Maria Vasilescu, Bessie Mundy's one-time cleaning woman. A plate of scones and jam sits in front of her, but she has little attention to spare for it at the moment. She’s talking away twenty to the dozen, in good English but with a heavy accent. John is having difficulty getting a word in. Sherlock has, by all appearances, already given up._

MRS VASILESCU: … but I never had a good feeling about it, a young woman like her all alone in that big empty house… Still empty now, of course. Nobody wants to buy it, people say it brings bad luck. Girl dead, father dead, mother crazy in the head, you know... ( _She taps her forehead significantly.)_ But poor Bessie always was such a lonely girl. Work work work all day, no time for friends, no time for pub, no time for parties, the way you young people like, eh?

_She gives Sherlock and John a grin that's supposed to be cheeky. John hurries to return it. It sits as badly on his face as it does on hers._

MRS VASILESCU: Only thing in the world she really loved was her dog. Always the dog, always the dog. He was her baby. _(With barely concealed disapproval)_ Went everywhere, that animal. Dog hair all over the place, hoover all day... Even in the bed. _(She literally shakes with disgust. To John)_ You're a doctor, no? Bad idea, wouldn't you say, too? Not hygienic. Ah. _(She picks up a scone and starts buttering it.)_ But you know what some people are like, about their pets. ( _She reaches for the jam, puffing with the effort.)_ She was crazy about dogs. All dogs _. (She takes a bite of her scone, and chews and swallows rapidly.)_ One time, she showed me these internet pictures, pictures of shaggy stray dogs, dead dogs, poisoned. That's how you treat dogs in Romania, Maria? she asks me, and I tell her, yes, of course we kill the street dogs in Romania. _(Addressing John in particular again)_ They bite children and spread infection, no? Good for nothing, those mutts. But Bessie tells me there's this shelter for stray dogs in Bucharest that she's giving money to so they can build bigger kennels and pay the vet and what have you. She had pictures of that on her computer, too.

_Sherlock, who seems to have let Mrs Vasilescu's rambling wash over him without paying it much attention at all so far, now exchanges a pointed look with John._

JOHN _(to Mrs Vasilescu):_ You mean there was a website about this dog shelter?

MRS VASILESCU: Oh yes. Nice pictures, shaggy dogs all happy and well-fed there. _(She smiles sourly.)_ But it was all a swindle, right?

JOHN: A swindle? Why?

MRS VASILESCU: Yes, yes. All wrong. The text. _(She gives a laugh.)_ Looked like Romanian, but was no proper Romanian at all. No grammar, you know. I told her. I said, this is all wrong, Bessie. But don't feel bad. There are lots of bad people in Romania who try to steal your money on the internet. Maybe give the money to a dog shelter here in England? Or give money to _people_ who have no home, eh?

JOHN _(leaning forward in his seat):_ Let me get this straight. You told her outright that if she gave money to that supposed dog shelter in Bucharest, she'd give it to a bunch of fraudsters?

MRS VASILESCU: Yes, but she said too late. She said she'd given them the money already.

JOHN: Was she upset to hear that it was a scam?

MRS VASILESCU: Oh, she didn't want to hear about it at all. She said George had met the people that run the place, so it had to be real. _(She throws up her hands in a gesture of resignation.)_ Rolling in money, the Mundys. Didn’t have to care about a few thousand pounds either way.

_Only then, she realises the curious, tense quiet that's fallen over her companions._

JOHN _(after a moment, slowly, as if testing the sound of the name):_ “George”.

_He abruptly turns to Sherlock, as if for his friend's opinion._

SHERLOCK: One name's as good as any other _. (To Mrs Vasilescu)_ Who exactly was this George?

MRS VASILESCU: A man she was seeing.

JOHN: Her boyfriend?

MRS VASILESCU _(with another, rather disapproving laugh):_ Oh, no. It wasn't serious. Just, how do you call it, a little hanky-panky?

JOHN: How do you know?

_Mrs Vasilescu gives John a censorious look._

MRS VASILESCU _(with dignity):_ I washed the sheets, you know, and suddenly there was no dog hair any more, but other things.

_John instantly goes red._

JOHN _(quickly):_ No, no, sorry, I mean how do you know it wasn't serious?

MRS VASILESCU: Ah, he didn't love her. Did he come and ask after her when she'd died? No, not that man. Vanished into thin air. Poor Bessie, _she_ was terribly in love with him, but did he care? No.

_Sherlock and John exchange another very significant look._

SHERLOCK: You didn't mention at the inquest that she was going out with someone.

MRS VASILESCU: Nobody asked. _(Bitterly)_ And you know what they’re like _. (She makes a dismissive gesture with her hand.)_ “Silly foreign woman, what do you know?”

JOHN: When did it start? Bessie dating this George, I mean?

MRS VASILESCU: Not long. Four weeks, five weeks?

JOHN: Before she died, you mean?

MRS VASILESCU: Yes. _She_ was happy. Much happier than in a long time. So I asked, you walk with a bouncy step, Bessie, anything happen? And she just smiles. You know, the way women always do.

_For some reason that isn't immediately apparent, she addresses this last comment to Sherlock in particular, as if to the expert in the room on such things. Sherlock merely shrugs. Mrs Vasilescu looks a little disappointed at his obvious lack of interest in all things romantic._

JOHN: Did you ever meet him?

MRS VASILESCU: No.

JOHN: And he wasn't there the night she died, was he?

MRS VASILESCU _(with total conviction):_ He can’t have been there. He'd have called a doctor for her straight away, wouldn't he?

SHERLOCK: Nothing on the sheets that time to suggest otherwise?

_There is a moment of awkward silence. Mrs Vasilescu apparently isn’t going to deign to answer that question. John changes tack._

JOHN _(to Mrs Vasilescu):_ Have you any idea how Bessie met this George in the first place?

MRS VASILESCU _(knowingly):_ Where do you young people go to find the love of your lives these days, eh?

 

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

_**In the vast, dark underground car park at New Scotland Yard,** _ _Greg Lestrade's car comes turning a corner, and moves neatly into its appointed slot between two pillars of bare concrete. In the car, Lestrade is behind the wheel, and Sally Donovan is next to him. Lestrade shuts off the engine. It goes out, and so do the over-bright headlights. But neither of them makes a move to get out, both of them lost in thought. Then, in the sudden silence, Sally Donovan's phone pings. She fishes it out of her pocket and reads the message on the screen._

SALLY: They're back in town. Just came in to Victoria, then separated, Watson to the tube, Holmes heading here on foot. He'll be here in ten minutes.

LESTRADE: Ah, thank God he's coming alone. _(In a sudden outburst of frustration)_ I'm not made for playing double games like this, Sally, really not. It can’t go on. _(He wearily rubs his hand over his face.)_ I mean, if he really was in on it from the start, then we're done for anyway. We'll never be able to prove it. And if he wasn't, wouldn't he have smelled a rat the moment we called him in, and he saw her body? I mean, he's bloody Sherlock Holmes. How can anyone commit murder right under his nose and get away with it?

SALLY _(coolly):_ Nobody could. It just means we're dealing with accessory after the fact, if it isn't downright complicity.

LESTRADE _(sarcastically):_ Well, that's a comfort. _(He leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes for a moment.)_ But what's he getting out of it?

SALLY: Is that so hard to see?

LESTRADE _(turning to look at her):_ You really mean that he'd stand by and _let_ someone murder three innocent young women just for the fun of it?

SALLY: They're nearly perfect crimes, you know, all three of them. Two not even detected until now, and absolutely no explanation for the third, even after the autopsy. Even I can see the attraction of setting up that sort of puzzle. Plus, winding us up and making us look like idiots has always been one of his favourite pastimes. _(She unfastens her seatbelt. When her boss makes no move to follow her example, she turns in her seat to look at him very earnestly.)_ You know, just because you don’t want to believe it doesn’t make it untrue.

LESTRADE _(almost angrily):_ We don’t _know_ what’s true, Sally. It’s one possibility, that’s all!

SALLY _(pointedly):_ And what exactly are the others? _(Without waiting for an answer that she knows isn’t coming anyway, she opens the car door.)_ And now let's get going before he gets a chance to go through your desk drawers.

 

* * *

 

 _**Greg Lestrade’s office at New Scotland Yard, a few minutes later.** _ _When Sherlock comes striding into the small room, as if blown in there by a tailwind straight from the Kentish coast, Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan are expecting him. Lestrade is sitting behind his desk while Sally is standing at his shoulder like a sentinel. It is a curious and altogether unnatural arrangement that would certainly catch Sherlock’s attention and give him pause, if he wasn't so absorbed in his own new discoveries. He’s not even fully through the door before he starts speaking._

SHERLOCK _(to Lestrade):_ You need to get administrator-level access to the user data on Find-The-One.co.uk, as soon as you can.

LESTRADE: Find-The-One? The dating website? Why?

SHERLOCK: Because that’s where you’ll find our murderer, of course! Jeanette de Souza was using it in the months before she died.

LESTRADE _(crossing his arms):_ That’s news to me.

SHERLOCK _(waving it aside):_ You can see the debits for the monthly charges in her PayPal account. I didn’t attach much importance to them at first, but now I’m willing to bet you anything that your excruciatingly slow so-called IT experts will eventually work out from her old laptop that Alice Burnham was using the same service, too. You could save us a lot of time if you got the company that runs the site to confirm that straight away. And I have no doubt that they’ll also find a now defunct account in their archives that once belonged to Beatrice Mundy of Herne Bay. The same man will have been in touch with all his victims that way.

_Lestrade and Sally exchange a look._

SHERLOCK: It’s not just a pattern, it’s an industry! It’s a one-man business, but it makes thousands, thanks to the desperation and the gullibility of all those single women around thirty who, in their pitiful excitement that they’re not going to die as old spinsters after all, could never imagine that the one man who finally truly loves them is in fact just running a huge and sometimes even deadly rip-off at their expense. _(He leaves Lestrade and Sally to digest this, and starts pacing in the narrow space in front of the desk.)_ Jeanette de Souza, Alice Burnham and Bessie Mundy won’t have been the only victims, not by far. They’re only the tip of the iceberg. Most of the other ladies will have been lucky enough to get away with no more damage than a broken heart and a depleted bank account, but we can’t rule out that there have been even more deaths that weren’t recognised at the time for what they really were - cold-blooded murders, for gain. _(He halts, and swivels on his heel back towards the two police officers.)_ And if we don’t stop him, there will be more, and soon.

SALLY _(rather sharply):_ What makes you so sure of that?

SHERLOCK _(impatiently):_ Look at the dates! The first time he killed, as far as we know, was in October 2009. The next death that we know of happened just under a year later, in September 2010. But after that, he waited barely half a year until he struck again. That means he’s growing both greedier, and more confident. _(He starts pacing again.)_ No serial killer really sets out to be a serial killer from the start. But when they’ve killed once, and when they’ve got away with it as ridiculously easily as our murderer got away in Bessie Mundy’s case, then they start seeing the attraction. The lack of any consequences stops it feeling wrong. Instead, it becomes a natural part of their repertoire. And step by step, it becomes an addiction. If killing gets them where they want, then they’ll do it. And if it gets them there quicker and more easily than anything else, they’re never going to stop. On the contrary, they might even feel an urge to up the dose.

SALLY _(maliciously):_ Well, you'd know all about _that_ , of course.

SHERLOCK: And so should you! Last time I looked, _you_ were the one getting paid to keep London safe. _(Sarcastically)_ I’m only in it for the fun, and the free coffee.

LESTRADE _(quietly):_ Sherlock.

SHERLOCK _(ignoring him, still addressing Sally):_ And there’ll never be a lack of willing victims, you know, not until women stop letting a ridiculous combination of hormonal overdrive and societal expectations drive them heedlessly into the arms of tricksters like this one, as soon as they start to feel the biological clock ticking.

SALLY _(flushing with anger):_ Oh, so now it’s their own fault they’re getting murdered, is it?

SHERLOCK _(indignantly):_ Well, _you_ tell them to stop issuing invitations! It’s still a surprisingly common affliction, all those supposedly emancipated women with their oh-so-fulfilling careers, successful on the outside but empty inside, frustrated by ill-advised, short-lived affairs, crushed by the social pressure that still says you’re not perfect until you’ve found the perfect man… The whole online dating industry lives and thrives only because enough of you still believe in that nonsense! Haven’t you learned a single thing the last hundred years?

SALLY _(snappishly):_ I’m only thirty-four, thanks!

SHERLOCK _(looking Sally up and down, his lips curling in a sneer):_ Well, you definitely tick _all_ those boxes yourself, Sally. Are you sure _you_ haven’t met our killer yet?

SALLY _(icily):_ You know, I think I may have.

_There is a tense silence. Sherlock stares at her with his eyebrows drawn together, trying to make sense of what she’s just said. Lestrade’s eyes anxiously flicker back and forth between them, and he hastily interrupts._

LESTRADE _(to Sherlock):_ Hang on - I still don’t get how this is supposed to work. You say our killer hooks up with lonely single women on that website, and then he milks them for money. But how? Even someone desperate to find their true love isn’t going to hand their savings over to a stranger, the moment he starts making eyes at them.

SHERLOCK: Of course not. He came up with a particularly clever system to fleece the ladies without them even realising it. Usually, that is. He uses the getting-to-know-you phase of his fake relationships to sound out his victims for their emotional weak spots. Almost everyone has something they care about, apart from their own well-being, and since that’s generally considered a good thing, people are usually happy to talk about it, even to strangers. And almost everyone who can afford it is also willing to occasionally donate money to a cause they care about. Now, imagine you’re a lonely woman who is crazy about dogs, and along comes this charming, kind man who not only loves you like no-one has ever loved you before, but who also happens to love dogs as much as you do. And he also just happens to know someone who runs this wonderful dog shelter in Romania, where they selflessly take in the country’s stray dogs to save them from being euthanised by the heartless health authorities. But very unfortunately, they’ve just lost their main sponsor, and are desperately in need of money for urgent repairs or the vet’s bills or what have you. There’s a website, in Romanian of course, showcasing the shelter’s work, and an e-mail address you can send a PayPal donation to, no bureaucratic hurdles or anything, money going straight where it is needed most.

_He smiles an awfully artificial smile._

LESTRADE _(now honestly confused):_ Sorry, Romanian street dogs? What are you talking about?

SHERLOCK: I’m talking about the reason why Bessie Mundy died. She died because unfortunately for her, our killer relied too much on Google Translate when he set up that fake website about the dog shelter for her benefit. Bessie's Romanian cleaning woman, whom the killer probably never knew existed, told her that the text was full of mistakes, so that the whole website was probably a scam. Bessie didn’t want to believe it at first, but then she must have confronted her wonderful boyfriend with her suspicions after all. He’ll have put on a good show of innocent outrage to appease her. Probably promised her to look into it and maybe even get her money back. But the next time he was a guest in her house and could persuade her to take a bath, he made damn sure that she’d never doubt his honesty again.

_Lestrade lets out a long breath, and sinks back into his chair._

LESTRADE: And you’re saying the same thing happened with Jeanette and her Brazilian street kids.

SHERLOCK: Obviously, yes. Street dogs or street kids, same difference. The point is that the killer quickly identified Jeanette’s particular emotional weakness, too – disadvantaged children, in her case - and immediately set out to tap it for his purposes. I’m fairly sure that he took better care with his Portuguese than with his Romanian when he set up a new custom-made fake website for her - the now broken link, of course. He took it down after she died, to cover his tracks. Jeanette had probably told him that she had a family connection with Brazil. So he’ll have made doubly sure the website looked genuine, even if she didn’t speak the language herself. But what he couldn’t predict was that less than a fortnight after he persuaded her to make that big donation, she’d book a plane ticket that would take her straight to the very place where this professed street children charity was supposed to be based. Of course she’d want to see all the good her money did there with her own eyes. Only there’d be nothing to see, and she’d know then she’d been duped. So she, too, had to be persuaded to take a bath, before she could leave for Salvador de Bahia at the start of the Easter holidays. On Sunday night, when she started feeling headachy while dining out with him, and he so kindly got her back home to rest and relax, the perfect opportunity offered.

_Lestrade grimaces with both sympathy and anger. Sally Donovan’s expression is still stony._

SALLY: But what about Alice Burnham? She didn’t give any money to charity before she died, fake or real.

SHERLOCK: No. That’s because Alice Burnham was an unusual variation on our killer's favourite theme _. (Addressing Lestrade again)_ Remember how I said that serving others and caring for others was what linked Alice with Jeanette? That was an error, based on a superficial likeness between their jobs, nursing the sick and teaching little kids. For Alice, the driving force behind becoming a nurse wasn’t helper’s syndrome. She chose that job to spite her parents, who had raised her in the belief that modern medicine was a pointless concept. And as fresh non-believers so often do, she’ll have worn that badge openly and proudly, and made no secret of it. So our killer tried a much simpler but also much riskier deception with her. He cooked up a story that he, too, was a former Christian Scientist who’d left that faith, and that like her, he was now alone in the world and had his own way to make, with no help and support from his family. We don’t know what exactly he told her - maybe he said he needed money to set up a business of his own, or that he had tuition debts that his parents’ wouldn’t help him pay off. But at any rate, Alice was more than happy to support a fellow sufferer who’d gone through the same struggle as her, especially since her own career was going splendidly and she’d just had a pay rise. Like Jeanette, by the way, who had recently been made deputy headmistress at her school. And like Bessie, who had just taken over her father’s booming business. So that’s where the four thousand pounds from Alice’s bank account went.

LESTRADE _(ruefully):_ But then she got doubts, and called that man from the London church to have her boyfriend's story confirmed.

SHERLOCK: Yes. And Reader Loud passed her death sentence on her answerphone, when he left that message a few days later to say that the man she'd asked after had never had anything to do with any of the Christian Scientist churches in London.

LESTRADE: Which the killer overheard?

SHERLOCK: Overheard, or more likely intercepted and deleted in the first place. I don’t suppose Alice would have got into the bathtub in his presence, naked and defenceless, if she’d already known for a fact that he’d lied to her from start to finish _. (To Sally Donovan)_ I could _really_ do with a coffee, by the way. _(Sally looks daggers at him, but of course doesn’t move. Sherlock continues speaking to Lestrade.)_ At any rate, after Alice, our killer probably realised that he had overdone it with the personal touch that time. Far too risky. So he reverted to the technically more complicated but much harder to debunk trick with the fake charities, as evidenced by Jeanette's PayPal transaction.

LESTRADE: And you're saying he's done this to lots of other women, too? He gets friendly with them, persuades them to donate to a worthy cause, and then breaks up with them and pockets their money himself, and they none the wiser?

SHERLOCK: Oh yes. He will kill a woman if necessary, to stop them blowing his cover, but that’s not his real objective. All he really wants is the money. Once you’ve got access to his activities on Find-The-One, you'll know just how many were affected.

LESTRADE _(doubtfully):_ You do realise that we’d need a court order to make them release that information to us?

SHERLOCK _(dismissively):_ Nonsense. All you need to do is call and tell them that the Met is planning to issue a warning to the general public tomorrow, to avoid the site until further notice as it's being frequented by a serial killer. You’ll see, they'll bend over backwards to accommodate you _. (With a crooked grin at Sally Donovan in particular.)_ Can’t afford to lose the more valuable half of their customer base.

_Sally scowls._

LESTRADE _(pensively):_ It would take a lot of time to build up that sort of trust, though, with each of his victims. A lot of chatting, a lot of dating. And then come up with a cover story tailored exactly to each of the women’s interests, and set up all those websites… It would be practically a full-time job, even if he re-uses some of his tales and works on several victims simultaneously.

SHERLOCK: I'm sure he does. But yes, I doubt that he'd be able to hold down a regular job concurrently with his career as a con artist. Not for any length of time, at any rate. That's something to go on, by the way. For the “wanted” poster. _(He gestures at Lestrade’s little black notebook that’s lying on the desk, as if to invite him to take notes, and then starts firing off deductions.)_ The man we're looking for is out of work, either permanently or a lot of the time. But his spending habits will be strangely at odds with that. For example, the place where he lives - in London, most likely, going by the story he told Alice Burnham - will be technically unaffordable to a man of his official status. He’ll be comfortable around IT - he’s very much at home in the social media aspect of it, with at least a smattering of graphic design, to set up all those websites convincingly. He’s probably got some sort of medical or paramedical background as well. He must have got the idea of drowning the women somewhere, as the best way to get rid of his victims without arousing suspicion. It is a rather exotic technique, if you think about it.

_Lestrade, who has actually reached for his notebook, now pulls his hand back again, and instead exchanges a very disconcerted look with Sally Donovan. Sherlock, absorbed in his little lecture, doesn’t seem to notice._

SHERLOCK: Psychologically, a large part of his mind is habitually occupied with the question of money – how to get it, and how to get more. We can't be sure yet whether there were true financial worries at the bottom of his criminal career. There _is_ quite a likelihood that he suffered a severe personal and/or financial crisis before embarking on this very creative way to better his fortunes. But it doesn't matter whether he’s really in dire straits or just imagines himself to be. To a disturbed mind, imaginary problems can be as potent motivators as real ones.

SALLY _(in a studiously neutral tone):_ “A disturbed mind”.

SHERLOCK: Yes, of course. The trouble is that it won't show, not straight away, and probably not even when you look more closely. _(He’s talking faster and faster, completely caught up in the brilliance of his conclusions.)_ Apart from his lately rather patchy CV – which he can easily lie about to the ladies - he'll appear to be socially and mentally well-adapted. He'll seem friendly, polite, helpful, attentive, always the gentleman. Because no woman who's hoping – and paying twenty-five quid a month - to hit the jackpot in the romance lottery is going to trust herself and her money to a social misfit, or to an obvious selfish bastard. No. In fact, his apparent complete normalcy and harmlessness are his true secret weapon.

_He pauses for breath, and reaches out with his hand into empty space, as if to physically touch the image he’s conjuring up in his mind, his eyes fixed on some spot in the middle distance._

SHERLOCK: His outward appearance will complement that impression. There’s a reason why the waitress at the sushi restaurant couldn’t describe him - there simply _is_ nothing remarkable about him. He takes special care not to stand out in any way, and to be totally unmemorable to potential witnesses. His dress style will be neat but unobtrusive, his haircut will be totally mainstream, and his face will be of the sort that you look at and immediately forget again, unless of course he’s just sworn eternal undying love to you. _(He turns back to his audience. Darkly_ ) He's a true wolf in sheep's clothing. The sort of man whose neighbours will gape in disbelief when you finally come to take him away.

_There is a silence. Sherlock, slowly resurfacing from his deductive trance, and clearly expecting applause or at least grudging admiration, frowns at the officers’ reactions. Sally Donovan is smiling almost pityingly, and Greg Lestrade has actually started shaking his head at Sherlock, the expression on his face much more pained than impressed._

SHERLOCK _(after a moment, genuinely puzzled):_ Anything I said?

SALLY _(to Lestrade):_ He’s really not getting it, is he?

SHERLOCK: I’m not getting _what?_

_Lestrade heaves a rueful sigh._

LESTRADE: Sherlock, listen to yourself - are you really going to make the same mistake twice?

SHERLOCK: What mis-

_Lestrade reluctantly reaches down into one of his desk drawers, pulls out a long, narrow wall calendar, and places it on his desk for Sherlock to see. It is exactly the kind of calendar that Sherlock deduced to be missing from the hallway of Jeanette de Souza’s home, with the only difference that the postcard-sized pictures on top of each page show endangered species from tropical rainforests rather than puppies or kittens. The calendar is open on the page for March, and into the line for the previous Sunday - the last day of Jeanette’s life - its owner has entered a single word in roundish, girly handwriting, followed by a little heart:_

John

_Sherlock stares at the damning calendar entry for close on a minute, thoughts racing behind his forehead but making progressively less sense rather than more, by the way his frown deepens and his breathing starts speeding up. Lestrade and Sally Donovan watch him attentively, their eyes never leaving his face._

SHERLOCK _(in a far-away, wondering voice):_ “Don’t bring John”.

_With an effort, he finally refocuses on Lestrade._

LESTRADE _(calmly):_ Well, yes. I hope you agree now.

SHERLOCK: _You_ took it. _(His eyes start blazing dangerously. Two alarmingly bright red spots have appeared on his high cheekbones.)_ _You_ took that calendar off the wall when you saw the name! _(Exploding, very loudly)_ And then you sat back and watched what I’d make of that puzzle, with the biggest piece missing!

LESTRADE _(defensively):_ I’m not proud of it, just so you know.

SHERLOCK: You can't _seriously_ believe -

LESTRADE: Well, you’ve just been rather definite yourself _. (He ticks Sherlock's list of the killer's characteristics off on his fingers.)_ Medical background, personal crisis, no regular job, good with the internet, inconspicuous appearance, friendly demeanour…

SHERLOCK _(cutting him off, angrily):_ Have you lost your _mind?_

SALLY _(sharply):_ Why, because the great Sherlock Holmes could never be wrong?

_Sherlock immediately rounds on her._

SHERLOCK _(snidely):_ Ah, so it’s _you_ who’s been whispering that in everyone's ear, is it?

SALLY _(nodding at the calendar):_ Well, how do you explain that? In the vast majority of all violent deaths, victim and perpetrator knew each other.

SHERLOCK: She _dumped_ him! Months ago!

SALLY _(coolly):_ He wouldn’t be the first man who didn’t respect that.

SHERLOCK _(jabbing his finger at the calendar):_ Who’d put a little heart after the name of their stalker?

SALLY: Who’d put a little heart after the name of their ex?

SHERLOCK _(furiously):_ A name that he shares with _hundreds of thousands_ other Englishmen! Why don’t you go and arrest all those?

LESTRADE _(unhappily):_ Nobody’s talking about arrests just yet, Sherlock.

SHERLOCK _(to Lestrade):_ Oh, really? _(Sarcastically)_ I suppose you’ve got her phone and her computer in that drawer there, too - doesn’t what's on there suffice for a warrant?

LESTRADE: No, we haven’t. _(Seeing Sherlock not convinced at all, he actually pulls the drawer open again.)_ Look. Empty.

_Sherlock doesn’t deign to verify it. Instead, he turns back to Sally Donovan, still blazing with fury._

SHERLOCK: Our killer changes his names like he changes his shirts! He was George to Bessie Mundy, he was Henry to Alice Burnham, so what if he was John to Jeanette de Souza?

SALLY _(snappishly):_ Well, he introduced her to his friends at Christmas, didn't he? It would have looked a bit odd if she'd known him by a different name than they did.

_Sherlock takes a deep breath, but then seems to decide that it would be wasted on continuing this particular discussion._

LESTRADE _(to Sherlock, in an appeasing tone):_ Look, it’s not like we’re enjoying this. Believe me, I’m nearly as pissed off as you are, to think that he maybe took us all in like that. But unless that George-John-or-Henry can be proved to be a man of real flesh and blood, and definitely not the same as your Doctor Watson, I don’t see how -

_He breaks off. At the mention of the word “flesh and blood”, Sherlock has given a little jolt, as if the words have triggered a memory. Now he holds up his hand to stem Lestrade’s flow of words, his eyes again on some invisible spot in the distance. His anger of a moment ago is gone, and he’s instantly all focussed again._

SHERLOCK: Blood.

LESTRADE _(puzzled):_ What?

SHERLOCK: It will be on the towel. That’s why it was gone, too. _(Deeply frustrated)_ Ah, how could I not see that?

SALLY _(impatiently):_ What towel?

SHERLOCK ( _excitedly, to Lestrade_ ): John Watson _saw_ him, Lestrade! Our murderer! He saw him, talked to him, _touched_ him, when he looked after that graze gone bad! _(With a sudden laugh)_ Oh, he's _very_ real, our George-John-or-Henry!

LESTRADE: What the hell are you talking about?

SHERLOCK: Her towel! The third of the bigger towels from Jeanette’s bathroom! There were two stacks of towels on the shelf, three small, two big, all of the same set, white and blue. If there was a set, there’d be the same number of all of them. Where was the third of the big ones?

LESTRADE _(with a shrug):_ In the laundry basket?

SHERLOCK _(impatiently):_ No, no, we turned all that upside down when we still thought we were looking for the container of her sleeping pills. There was no third towel of that size and design anywhere in the flat. Now, think. Nobody gets into the bath without placing a towel close at hand, to wrap yourself in when you get out. And remember the deluge of water on the floor. Whatever exactly he did, however exactly he killed her, if that amount of water splashed out of the tub in the process, then a good deal would have got onto him, too. So when she was dead and he was about to leave, with her phone and her computer, he must have used it to towel himself dry, so he wouldn’t attract attention on his way home. And of course he took it with him, too, to leave no traces. The only thing he overlooked was the calendar on the wall.

LESTRADE _(with a frown):_ But what was that about John Watson meeting him?

SHERLOCK: On the day after, on Monday, John's first day at the Free Clinic, he had a patient with a festering abrasion on the back of his neck. Since the man also wanted a test for STDs, John simply assumed that he'd been involved in a bit of pain-for-pleasure that got out of hand. But the testing was only a pretext, and that injury was in fact a towel burn, from when he hastily towelled himself dry the night before. With those nasty synthetic blends that feel all plush, it can happen quite easily, especially if you're not used to them.

SALLY _(sceptically):_ Why would he bother to go to an overcrowded Free Clinic all the way across town to have his neck seen to?

SHERLOCK _(impatiently):_ Because they're the only places in London where they provide healthcare without asking questions, of course! Wouldn't do to have that injury documented by his regular GP who’d know his real name, would it? He's a master at mimicry, our man. Probably picked the clinic furthest away both from the crime scene and his own home. _(Addressing Lestrade again, almost happily)_ But find the towel, and you'll have the killer's DNA - then find the man John Watson will describe for you, and run a comparison - and there you'll have him, bound hand and foot.

_He smiles triumphantly, but again, to his surprise, neither Lestrade nor Sally Donovan seem to share his enthusiasm._

LESTRADE _(regretfully):_ I hate to point it out, mate, but the only word we have that this man with the towel burn ever existed at all is John Watson's own. So that whole story's a bit like the dog chasing its own tail, isn't it?

_Sherlock’s face falls._

LESTRADE: Look, as I said, I don’t want it to be true either. But it’s -

SALLY _(snappishly):_ \- the only explanation that covers all the facts.

_Lestrade gives her a warning look, but too late. Sherlock is already flaring up again, and worse than before._

SHERLOCK _(shouting at Sally):_ Oh, facts? And what are those? There’s _nothing_ that puts John Watson anywhere even near Jeanette last Sunday night!

SALLY _(with a sneer):_ Because he was sitting at home in Baker Street like a good boy, and you can attest to it?

SHERLOCK: He was helping his sister move house!

SALLY: Oh, haven't we all heard a hundred times what _you_ think alibis from close family members are worth? _(Nastily)_ Even in cases where the family member in question isn’t a confirmed alcoholic.

SHERLOCK _(derisively):_ Well, what’s next - are you thinking of asking the MoD to verify that John really ever was in Afghanistan in 2009, rather than murdering lonely businesswomen in Kent?

LESTRADE _(earnestly):_ We’re considering it, yes.

SHERLOCK _(rounding on Lestrade):_ And Alice Burnham, last September? We were probably having tea in frigging Buckingham _Palace_ just when she drowned in Blackpool! How’s that for an alibi?

LESTRADE _(clearing his throat):_ No, actually, the Palace was two days later. On the day Alice Burnham died, John Watson was -

SHERLOCK _(quickly retrieving the information from his memory):_ \- at a medical conference in Dublin, yes. As the immigration authorities at Dublin Airport will no doubt be happy to attest.

LESTRADE _(with a shrug):_ They’ve still got ferry services running between Dublin and Liverpool, and the passport controls on those are notoriously shoddy. It is theoretically possible to get from Dublin to Blackpool and back again within 24 hours, by boat.

SHERLOCK _(after a moment’s pause, in a tone of utter contempt):_ That's _absurd_.

_He turns his back on them, ready to march out in a huff._

LESTRADE _(quietly):_ Sherlock?

SHERLOCK _(turning back, annoyed):_ What?

LESTRADE: Are you really sure that the waitress at the sushi restaurant couldn’t give you a description?

_There is a tense silence while the two men stare at each other suspiciously. Sherlock takes a deep breath, as if just short of another explosion – but then he turns on his heel and strides out of the room in a dark cloud of disdain, leaving the door open behind him._

_But by the time he’s turned the corner and is heading for the lifts down to the exit, still at the double, he has to bite his lower lip to stop it trembling._

 

* * *

 

 _**A room in Mycroft Holmes’ residence,** _ _early evening. A crackling fire has been lit in the fireplace, bathing the wood-panelled room in a warm, cosy light. By a large diamond-paned window, Mycroft stands looking pensively out into the dark garden with his hands in the pockets of his three-piece suit._

MYCROFT _(after a moment):_ Well, what are you expecting me to say _?_ _(_ _He turns abruptly back towards the room. Sententiously)_ That to err is human?

_In an armchair close to the fire sits Sherlock, huddled in his seat, head in hand, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed broodingly on the dancing flames._

SHERLOCK _(not looking up, tonelessly):_ I don't know.

MYCROFT _(with a sigh):_ That seems to be the recurring theme of this conversation.

_He allows himself a small smile of sympathy, but he immediately wipes it off his face again when his brother raises his head and meets his eyes._

SHERLOCK _(almost imploringly):_ Is it true?

MYCROFT: The question that I find far more interesting is why it matters so much to you.

SHERLOCK _(angrily):_ _Is_ it true?

MYCROFT _(smiling rather ruefully):_ I don't know. We don’t routinely monitor all war veterans for signs of going off the rails, you know, even though they have a higher statistical likelihood of doing so than the average population.

_Sherlock snorts, and turns back to the fire. Mycroft walks over and takes a seat opposite his brother._

MYCROFT: We pride ourselves on our knowledge of human nature, don't we, you and I? And so very often, our perceptions are so much more accurate and go so much deeper than those of others. But in the end, all even we have to go on are facts. And facts that are painted and tainted by what-ifs and please-nots are of no use to anyone.

_He pauses to give his brother the chance to respond, but Sherlock remains silent._

MYCROFT _(gently):_ You’d had a moment of doubt yourself, hadn't you?

_In Sherlock’s mind's eye, the image of the Japanese restaurant in Peckham flashes up, with Chandra the sturdy waitress pointing at John Watson through the glass partition between the restaurant and the takeaway counter. Then Mycroft’s voice fetches him back to the here and now._

MYCROFT: Ah. Yes, I thought so. But now delete all the what-ifs and please-nots. What remains?

SHERLOCK _(after a moment, hesitantly):_ Questions.

MYCROFT _(raising his eyebrows):_ Then go and find the answers _. (He leans forward towards his brother. Intently)_ Facts, Sherlock. Let the facts speak. They, and only they, will tell the truth.

 

* * *

 

 _**Outside Jeanette’s house in Peckham. Later that night** _ _. Sherlock, back in his coat and scarf, is standing just outside the closed door of No. 14, facing the roadway. He has his hands in his pockets, still as a statue, only his head turning from left to right as he scans the quiet surroundings. There are lights in the windows of some of the small houses that line the street on either side, but the street itself is completely deserted, much like it would have been on the night of Jeanette’s death._

_A moment later, Sherlock has made up his mind, and he turns right and walks down the shorter end of the street, glancing left and right as he goes. Just before the street corner, a narrow gap opens between two houses, giving access to an alleyway. Sherlock enters it, but soon hits a dead end. He’s in the backyard of some small corner shop, with a motor scooter parked next to its back door, and a large skip placed by the opposite wall. Sherlock makes straight for it, opens the lid and peers inside. The rubbish bags in it barely cover the bottom. It’s clearly been emptied since Sunday night. Disappointed, Sherlock closes the lid again, and walks back to the main road._

_The next hour or so is taken up by an increasingly frantic and entirely fruitless search of all the neighbourhood’s nooks and crannies - anywhere large enough to hide a laptop and a mobile phone, wrapped in a bath towel. It has Sherlock elbows-deep in more skips, in rubbish bins, in flower buckets and hedges. Like some manic jack-in-the-box, he disappears and reappears, climbing over walls and fences, ducking behind distribution boxes and down light shafts, getting steadily dirtier and steadily more desperate as his search continues to yield absolutely nothing. But it is only after trawling the basin of a small fountain in a small park close to Jeanette’s street with his bare hands, leaving his arms sopping wet and all the rest of Sherlock shivering with the cold, that he acknowledges the pointlessness of what he’s doing. He sinks down on the stone steps of the fountain, hugging himself for warmth, and raises his dirt-smudged face to the dark night sky as if to plead with the stars for a new flash of inspiration. But it doesn’t come._

 

* * *

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

_**The company offices of Find-The-One.co.uk, around noon on the next day.** _ _In a glossy, minimalistically furnished open office space, its windows and walls decorated with the company’s logo - two halves of a red heart, slotted together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle -_ _Sally Donovan is sharing a desk with a young Asian man in a black polo shirt and square black glasses. He mans a computer with two large screens, and is scrolling his way through what looks like rows upon rows of meta data. Sally’s attention is on the printout of yet another list on the desk in front of her._

IT TECHNICIAN: And you really want the name and address of every woman he’s exchanged more than one message with between New Year’s and now?

SALLY _(highlighting a line on her list with a marker):_ Ideally, yes.

IT TECHNICIAN: It’s just that I’m at forty-eight already _. (Sally looks up at him in surprise.)_ And I’m not even through January yet.

SALLY _(wryly):_ He really meant it.

IT TECHNICIAN _(with a grin):_ Nice way of putting it.

_He hits a few keys, and the printer on the desk starts emitting more lists. Just then, Greg Lestrade comes striding into view._

LESTRADE: How are you getting on?

SALLY _(confidently):_ Oh, brilliantly. Vinh here found both Alice Burnham’s and Beatrice Mundy’s accounts in no time at all. The same man was in touch with both of them via the website, several weeks before they died.

LESTRADE: I thought he’d changed his name in between?

IT TECHNICIAN: He did. He cancelled his membership, and then registered anew under a new name and IP address.

LESTRADE: Then how do you know he’s the same?

IT TECHNICIAN: He uploaded the same pictures every time.

LESTRADE _(with sudden, barely suppressed excitement_ ): So we've actually got pictures of him?

_He looks across at Sally, but she's shaking her head, stalling all hopes of a quick solution._

SALLY: It's not him. Vinh says he stole them from another dating website, from someone else's profile there. A gay site, as it happens. Probably to make sure there was no accidental overlap.

LESTRADE _(to the technician):_ How did you work that out?

IT TECHNICIAN _(with a modest smile):_ Facial recognition software.

SALLY _(glancing over her list):_ He registered as George Joseph Smith originally, and that’s how he met Bessie Mundy. Then in October 2009, he made a fresh start as Henry Williams. That account was active for about a year, until he met Alice Burnham. And after that, in September 2010, he became John Lloyd, and under that name contacted Jeanette.

LESTRADE: He contacted her first?

SALLY: Oh yes. It was always him first. With Alice and Bessie, too.

LESTRADE: So after each of the deaths, he tried to cover his tracks by changing his online identity _. (Sally nods. To the IT technician)_ Let me guess, and John Lloyd has only just cancelled his membership, too?

IT TECHNICIAN: This Monday morning.

LESTRADE: You don’t systematically monitor the site for multiple registrations, do you?

IT TECHNICIAN: No, why? If someone absolutely wants to maximise their opportunities…

_He shrugs._

SALLY _(with a slightly disapproving undertone):_ They don't double-check postal addresses, either, as long as people pay their fees. All the addresses that George-John-or-Henry gave are non-existent – streets, yes, numbers, no.

LESTRADE _(resigned):_ I'm starting to wonder how online dating can ever actually work out fine.

IT TECHNICIAN _(with disarming honesty):_ Oh, I'd _never_ do it.

_Lestrade smiles rather sourly, then turns back to Sally._

LESTRADE: So, basically - everything Sherlock told us about our killer's MO is true?

SALLY _(morosely):_ Absolutely everything. Our killer was in touch with dozens of women simultaneously in January alone. He must have tried his luck with hundreds, over the years.

LESTRADE: Well, he'd have to cast his net pretty wide to start with, and then do a lot of filtering to narrow it down to the suitable candidates.... They need to have money to spare. They need to live alone so there won’t be witnesses - no flatmates, no kids. And they need to have -

SALLY _(cynically):_ A bathtub?

LESTRADE _(wryly):_ That, too, yes. _(To the technician)_ But anyway - all you’ve got for us to identify this man is wrong names, wrong addresses and wrong pictures, right?

_The IT technician nods unhappily. Lestrade puffs out a breath of frustration._

LESTRADE _(to Sally):_ Nameless, faceless, and still out there, only waiting for the next girl to take the bait. We’ve _got_ to stop him, Sally.

SALLY _(holding up her list, in a mock-cheerful tone_ ): We're only a few hundred witness interviews away from the solution. We'll piece it together.

LESTRADE _(tentatively):_ Wouldn't we get there a lot quicker if we asked -

SALLY _(firmly):_ No.

 

* * *

 

**_Marylebone Free Clinic, around the same time._ ** _In his small, rather utilitarian and currently empty consulting room, John Watson is in the process of shutting down his computer and clearing his desk, putting pens and forms back into their proper places. There is a knock on the door, and a resolute-looking nurse with flaming red short hair looks in._

NURSE: Just one more, John?

JOHN _(with little enthusiasm):_ I was just going to have lunch.

NURSE: I told him we were full for today, but he’s refusing to go away. _(Lowering her voice, sympathetically)_ The poor boy’s a nervous wreck. If we let him wait through lunch, there won’t be anything of his fingernails left.

JOHN _(rolling his eyes in exasperation):_ Jesus. What’s he come for?

NURSE: Wouldn’t tell. He just said he was afraid that he might have misjudged someone badly, and now he’s worried about the consequences.

JOHN _(turning to restart his computer, resigned):_ Aren’t they all. Well, show him in.

NURSE _(with a smile):_ Thanks. I’ll get you a Mars bar to tide you over lunch.

_She walks away, and a moment later, the patient she has announced appears in the doorway. John, who is in the process of logging back on to his computer, waves him to the visitor’s chair in front of his desk without really looking - and almost jumps out of his skin when he finally turns to face him, and realises who it is._

_Sherlock has taken care to look his part - he’s in a white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, and he’s wet his hair and slicked it back to straighten out his trademark curls, keeping it in place with a pair of sunglasses pushed up into it. A fashionable canvas shoulder bag completes his outfit. The one thing he doesn’t look at all is nervous. He settles comfortably in his chair, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to invade the workplaces of one’s friends’ in disguise. John, predictably, takes a moment to find his voice._

JOHN: What the hell are you doing here?

SHERLOCK _(casually):_ Oh, I told the nurse. Didn’t she pass it on?

JOHN _(puzzled):_ What? 

SHERLOCK _(suddenly dead serious):_ I think you should disappear for a while.

JOHN: Disappear? Why on earth?

SHERLOCK _(rather quickly, as if to get it over):_ Because our friends at the Met are suspecting you of having drowned three ex-girlfriends in their bathtubs, and if their lack of imagination and their eagerness to jump to conclusions are as pronounced in this case as they usually are, they’ll be here by the end of the day with a warrant for your arrest.

_For what seems like a whole minute, John, who has followed Sherlock’s words with his mouth hanging open, just sits there thunderstruck. Then he starts laughing - a high-pitched, hysterical and altogether unfunny kind of laughter._

JOHN _(shaking his head):_ But that’s ridiculous, Sherlock. Where did they get _that_ idea?

SHERLOCK: The man whom Jeanette went out with last called himself John. And - _(He hesitates, but then he says it anyway.)_ And he looked a hell of a lot like you.

JOHN: Says who?

SHERLOCK: Says the waitress at the sushi restaurant.

_There is a very awkward silence. All remaining traces of incredulous amusement drain from John’s face._

JOHN _(heavily):_ And you’re telling me that only now.

SHERLOCK _(avoiding his eyes):_ Mmh.

JOHN _(sharply):_ Why?

_There is no reply. Sherlock is still doing his best not to look his friend in the eye. John abruptly pushes himself back with his chair._

JOHN _(coldly):_ Because you were _intrigued_ , weren’t you? _(With another entirely humourless laugh)_ Oh, I can see the attraction. What a unique opportunity to study a murderer up close, eh? Well, what did you find? Did he behave as you expected? Go on, tell me. He put on a marvellous show of concern and grief, wouldn’t you agree? Seemed like he really cared, didn’t it? _(Acidly)_ Aren’t you at least a little bit impressed?

SHERLOCK _(sensibly):_ John, I -

JOHN _(exploding with rage, very loudly):_ Because that’s all we ever are to you, aren’t we, Sherlock? Walking and talking _puzzles!_ _(He pushes himself out of his chair, unable to keep still. Sherlock, quite stunned by the force of his friend’s anger, doesn’t even try to get a word in.)_ That’s all we are, samples for your microscope, studies in the deficiencies of humankind! _(With bitter sarcasm)_ Well, thank you, it’s nice to have been useful!

SHERLOCK: John, that’s nonsense.

JOHN: Oh, is it? _(He braces his hands on the edge of his desk, leaning towards his friend. When he speaks again, his voice has changed from white-hot fury to deadly calm.)_ Then let me tell you a thing or two about being useful. There’s not been a single moment, ever since _you_ deigned to tell me about Jeanette’s death, when I’ve felt _any_ kind of useful at all. Not a moment when I haven’t wondered, what if we’d stayed together, what if I hadn't let her down so badly? And not a moment when I haven't tried to at least understand _how_ she died. _(Shaking his head, deeply frustrated)_ Seven years of training as a doctor, but I still haven’t the _slightest_ clue. How’s that for useful? _(A pause.)_ That _hurts_ , Sherlock.

 _His voice threatens to break. He snaps his mouth shut and waits for the moment to pass, fiercely determined to keep his composure. He only just manages it. Sherlock is watching him in silence, a pained expression on his face._  

JOHN _(after a moment):_ So the least I can do is help find the true killer now. I know I haven’t done as much as I should have _. (He gestures around the consulting room.)_ This was a convenient excuse at first, yes. I told you, on the way to Herne Bay, that my first instinct was to run away and pretend it hadn’t happened. But if they’ve got questions for me now, if there’s anything I can do to get this cleared up, I’m _happy_ to talk to them, when and where they want.

SHERLOCK _(impatiently):_ You know that’s not how it works, John. You’ve seen the procedure often enough from the safe side of the fence. Once you’re caught up in that machinery in the wrong role -

JOHN _(flaring up again):_ So, what do you want me to do? Take to my heels, like a coward? That’ll only distract them from any leads that really matter!

SHERLOCK _(with brutal honestly):_ Well, as they see it, your involvement in our investigation has already invalidated any results we’ve produced anyway. You’d do much better to keep out of it completely for the time being.

JOHN: So you’re shutting me out now?

SHERLOCK: They’ve already shut _me_ out. And there’s a reason why they had Jeanette’s autopsy done by someone other than a friend of yours, too.

JOHN _(with a grimace):_ Jesus.

_There’s a silence, until Sherlock abruptly changes tack._

SHERLOCK: On Monday -

JOHN _(cautiously):_ Yes?

SHERLOCK: The man with the ugly grazes on the back of his neck.

JOHN _(puzzled by the sudden change of subject):_ What about him?

SHERLOCK: Any chance you’ve got CCTV footage of him?

JOHN: No, no way. We always delete that after twenty-four hours. _(With a shrug)_ Anonymity and all that.

SHERLOCK: Never gave a name and address, either?

JOHN: Just a mobile number so we could text him his results.

SHERLOCK: What happened to the blood sample you took from him?

JOHN: Destroyed after use. We do the tests here on site, straight away.

SHERLOCK _(nodding at the computer):_ And the only evidence that he was ever here at all would be an entry in your files, I suppose?

_John nods._

SHERLOCK: Which you made yourself?

JOHN: Yeah. Why? What’s he got to do with this?

SHERLOCK: Can you describe him?

JOHN: I’d say about my age. On the short side of middle-height... short hair, middling kind of brown. Jeans, dark shirt. Navy blue or black, can’t remember. Neat, at any rate. Eyes - blue, I’d say, but not sure. No beard, no glasses. Not the most noticeable type, actually.

SHERLOCK _(in a carefully neutral tone):_ And now you see Lestrade’s dilemma, I’m sure.

JOHN _(with a frown):_ Who is that man?

SHERLOCK: Our killer. Who, in his haste to get dry again after drowning Jeanette, must have given himself such a bad towel burn that he had to go and see a doctor. Who happened to look just like him. _(He smiles humourlessly.)_ And then he vanished into thin air, leaving no trace that he ever even existed.

_This takes a moment to sink in. Then John falls back into his chair._

JOHN: You believe it, too.

_Sherlock shifts in his chair, but he can't seem to bring himself to either confirm or deny it._

JOHN _(after a moment, in a surprisingly calm tone):_ Sherlock, that man isn’t just a killer. He's not even a man. He's a piece of vermin. A blood-sucking _parasite_. And if you really think that’s me, I can’t help you.

_He very ostentatiously turns to his computer, and starts typing on it. Sherlock frowns at this sudden dismissal, but then he gets up without protest. He quietly leaves the room, taking off his ridiculous sunglasses and glumly shaking his drying hair back into its usual disorder as he goes._

* * *

 

  ** _Outside the clinic, a moment later,_** _Sherlock is walking down the street towards home. He’s put his jacket and scarf back on, which has notably reduced the bulk of his bag, and is looking much more like himself again. He has his phone at his ear, waiting impatiently for his call to connect. A few steps further on, it does, and Sherlock starts speaking without preamble._

SHERLOCK: Mycroft? I need full access to the Royal Army Medical Corps staff files, and I need it now. 

* * *

**_Back in the consulting room,_ ** _John has put his elbows on his desk and hidden his face in his hands. He sits there in unmoving silence for a moment, but then he resurfaces, takes out his phone, too, and dials a number._

JOHN _(into the phone):_ Hi, it’s John. John Watson. I need your help.

* * *

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

_A thick jet of water comes rushing out of a tap and pools at the bottom of a bathtub, gurgling and swirling around as the water level slowly rises. It is the bathtub_ _**in the bathroom of Jeanette’s home** _ _, and around it Sherlock, John, Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan have gathered. None of them speaks, but it would be difficult for them to make themselves heard over the thundering rush anyway. They all have their eyes on the rippling water as it steadily fills the tub. Outside the small frosted window, evening is falling. Eventually, when the tub is three quarters full, Sherlock tests the water temperature with his hand, then turns off the tap. A sudden silence descends on the room, so thick with unspoken questions that you could cut it with a knife. Lestrade’s voice echoes strangely in the bare room when he finally breaks it._

LESTRADE  _(sceptically):_ So, what’s this supposed to be? 

SHERLOCK: I’m letting the facts speak.

_Lestrade glances across at John._

JOHN  _(quickly):_ I’ve no idea.  _(With a slightly reproachful glance at Sherlock)_ He hasn’t told me anything either.

LESTRADE _(to Sherlock):_ Is this supposed to be a reconstruction, or what? 

SHERLOCK: Of course. Or don’t you want to know how they all died?  _(He turns to Sally Donovan, and gestures towards the gently steaming bath.)_ Well, in you get. 

SALLY, JOHN and LESTRADE  _(simultaneously, and in the same tone of utter disbelief):_ What? 

SHERLOCK  _(to Sally, in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone):_ You’re much closer to Jeanette’s height and weight than any of us others. Maybe she wasn’t quite as anorexic as you are, but you’re certainly the closest approximation we have.  _(Jerking his head at the bath.)_ Go on, or it’ll get cold. 

_Sally opens her mouth and then closes it again, quite unable to take in the enormity of the suggestion._

JOHN  _(to Sherlock, incredulously):_ Hang on - do you seriously mean to try and  _drown_ her to -

SHERLOCK  _(with a broad smile):_ No,  _you_ will. 

_Lestrade takes a step forward, placing himself protectively between Sally and the other two._

LESTRADE  _(rather angrily):_ Okay, Sherlock, very funny, but the joke’s over now. 

SHERLOCK: It’ll be much safer with a doctor in charge, I assure you _. (To Sally, generously)_ And don’t worry, you can keep your clothes on – if I'm right, frictional resistance will be a negligible factor. 

SALLY  _(to Lestrade):_ He’s out of his mind!  _(To Sherlock, in a slightly hysterical tone)_ You’re not drowning me just to prove you’re clever!  _(Pointing an accusing finger at John)_ And neither is he! He least of all! 

LESTRADE  _(to Sherlock):_ Come on, what the hell are you getting at?

SHERLOCK  _(impatiently):_ I told you, I'm going to demonstrate -

JOHN _(in an appeasing tone):_ Listen, Sherlock, maybe you can just explain the theory? 

SHERLOCK: There  _is_ no theory.  _(To Lestrade, insistently)_ What our killer did is without precedent in medical and legal history, and that means there’s only one way to find out how exactly it worked! 

LESTRADE  _(firmly):_ Sherlock, we’re  _not_ going to drown  anyone just to show that - 

SHERLOCK  _(with a snort):_ Of course we’re not actually drowning anyone! Guess what we’ve got John here for! 

_Lestrade looks sceptically across at John again._

SALLY  _(snidely):_ He’s just being mental, as usual! 

SHERLOCK: Oh, for God’s sake!

_He gives the other three a look full of contempt, then pulls off his coat and drops it on the floor, followed by his jacket. Then with the same - rather unnecessary - vehemence, he kicks off his fine shoes and toes off his socks as well. And before the others have quite grasped what he’s about to do, he’s stepped into the bathtub himself, in shirt and trousers. When he lowers himself down, with his back against the sloping end, his bulk displaces so much of the water that it washes up to within half an inch of the upper edge of the tub. Sherlock stretches out his long legs, propping his dripping bare heels up on the end of the bath._

SHERLOCK: Alright, John. Pull. Quickly.

JOHN  _(crossing his arms):_ Certainly not! 

SHERLOCK: Certainly yes.

_They stare at each other for a long moment, Sherlock fiercely determined to make his point, or rather several points at once, and John equally determined not to be made an accomplice in such an absurd scene – until it registers with him that there_ _is_ _more than one point to be made here. Sherlock, seeing it, gives him the slightest nod to encourage him. John takes a deep breath, but then he seizes his chance and steps up to the bathtub. Lestrade and Sally Donovan exchange a rather disconcerted look._

JOHN _(to Sherlock, a little hesitantly):_ Pull up your feet, right?  
  
SHERLOCK: Yes. Quickly. 

_John, still not entirely convinced of the wisdom of what he’s doing, places his hands under his friend’s heels, and then without warning pulls Sherlock's feet forward and upwards in one quick move. The effect is astounding. Sherlock, deprived of his balance, immediately goes under, his shoulders and head slipping under the surface in a gush of water that goes overboard at the lower end of the tub, wetting both John and the floor. John, startled, immediately releases Sherlock’s feet - but Sherlock doesn’t resurface. His legs just drop down limply on the edge of the bath. Alarmed, the three others lean over the tub and look in disbelief at the motionless form in it. Sherlock’s face is a still, white blur below the surface, eyes closed, his hair floating sluggishly around his head like short strands of seaweed._

SALLY: He’s faking it.

JOHN  _(appalled):_ No, he’s bloody not!  _(To Lestrade, quickly)_ Help me get him out! 

_Lestrade, who is closer to Sherlock’s head than John, nods and almost dives headlong into the tub himself. Hooking his hands under Sherlock’s arms, he starts heaving him out of the water. It pulls at Sherlock’s sopping wet clothes, reluctant to release its victim. John leans in from the other side and manages to get his arms around Sherlock’s middle. Together, they bundle the lifeless body over the edge. When they lower him on the white and blue bathmat, Sherlock's lolling head accidentally hits the floor with a thump, but the impact doesn’t rouse him._

JOHN _(anxiously):_ Sherlock? 

_He rolls his unresponsive friend over on his back._

LESTRADE  _(highly alarmed):_ He’s not - ?

JOHN _(feeling for a pulse to make sure):_ No, heart’s beating. He’s just - 

_Wasting no more time on talk, he tilts Sherlock’s head back and lifts his chin, then pinches his friend’s nose closed in preparation for rescue breaths. Lestrade and Sally exchange a worried look over his head._

SALLY  _(quietly):_ Ambulance? 

_Lestrade shrugs helplessly. John, resurfacing after administering the first few breaths, places his hand flat on Sherlock's chest to check for a reaction – and just then, Sherlock’s ribcage rises and falls again on its own for the first time._

JOHN  _(his voice cracking with relief):_ We’ll manage. 

_He bends over his friend again for some more breaths, but Sherlock’s eyelids are already fluttering, and even before they’re fully open, he’s already pushing John away._

SHERLOCK _(in a very choked voice, barely understandable):_ Stop that, John… people will… talk… 

_John, too relieved to mind the silly dig, puts his arm around his friend’s shoulders to help him sit up. Sherlock opens his mouth again, but this time only to cough up copious amounts of water. Lestrade wordlessly hands John a towel from Jeanette’s stock to catch it in. When Sherlock’s bloodshot eyes are able to focus on his surroundings again, John shakes his head at him._

JOHN: You’re  _mad_ , you know that? You were out of it within seconds! 

SHERLOCK  _(very hoarsely):_ Yes, that was -  _(He coughs again.)_ \- instructive. 

_He wipes his mouth clumsily with the damp towel._

JOHN  _(to Lestrade, still rather shaken by the experience):_ It needs no strength at all. A child could do it, as long as they had surprise on their side. There won’t be a single bruise to show for it either. 

SHERLOCK  _(to John):_ Let’s hope the trick… doesn’t make the rounds. It’s too - too easy altogether. 

_He succumbs to another coughing fit. John leans down to help him settle his back against the side of the tub for support._

JOHN  _(thinking aloud):_ The fainting would be brought on by a sudden pressure on the vagus nerve … either from the water rushing down the throat or the force of the laryngospasm itself… all you’d need to be is quick… 

SALLY  _(rather sharply):_ And how would anyone without medical knowledge actually know that? 

SHERLOCK  _(drawing himself up, with surprising vehemence):_ Lestrade, can you please order your sergeant to abandon her stupid pet theory right now? 

LESTRADE _(startled):_ What? 

SHERLOCK  _(contemptuously):_ It may be only just conceivable that someone who pecks away at his keyboard at a rate of no more than five words per minute can make a living as a full time internet fraudster. 

_He runs out of breath, and another bout or hacking coughs shakes him from head to foot. There’s still water coming back out, too._

SHERLOCK  _(in a horribly wheezy voice, but still in the same indignant tone):_ But it's utterly beyond me how you can still believe that the man who has, to my certain knowledge, been dumped by no less than  _four_ girlfriends in the past six months for being an inattentive, unreliable sod that cancels dates or runs off at a moment’s notice to have some better fun elsewhere - 

JOHN  _(bewildered):_ What? 

SHERLOCK  _(in between more coughs):_ \- can be the same man who bewitches his victims into feeling so loved and special that they’re willing to part with thousands of pounds as soon as he clicks his fingers.  _(To John)_ Or have I miscounted _? (John grimaces. To Lestrade)_ And in case you’re still not convinced, the Ministry of Defence will readily confirm that on the second of October 2009, when all this started, Doctor John Watson, RAMC - 

JOHN  _(rather alarmed):_ I don’t - 

SHERLOCK  _(talking over him, too intent of getting to the bottom of the matter to let himself be stopped):_ \- was in - 

JOHN  _(in a warning tone):_ Sherlock! 

SHERLOCK  _(defiantly):_ \- the ICU at Selly Oak Hospital in Birmingham, newly flown out of Camp Bastion, deaf, blind and dumb from septic shock while his doctors were debating whether to take his arm off above or below the elbow.  _(With a very reproachful look at the two policemen, who are listening with their mouths open)_ Hardly the condition in which to woo, win and kill a millionaire! 

_A ringing silence follows his words. Then John completely startles the three others by storming right out of the room, thundering down the stairs outside, and then banging the front door of the house shut with such force that it rattles on its hinges._

_Sherlock slumps exhaustedly back against the bathtub._

SHERLOCK _(in a very thready voice):_ I hope that settles it. 

LESTRADE  _(more exasperated than content):_ It does, you idiot. 

_He exchanges a look with Sally Donovan, who doesn't look happy, but who is no longer protesting either. While Sherlock returns to clearing his tortured respiratory tract of the remaining bathwater he's swallowed, Sally's phone starts ringing. Glad of the distraction, she pulls it out and glances at the screen._

SALLY  _(to Lestrade, surprised):_ It’s Vinh!

_Lestrade nods to her to take the call, and she does, withdrawing into the hall. Sherlock starts clambering to his feet._

SHERLOCK: Who’s Vinh?

LESTRADE  _(offering Sherlock an arm, which he accepts without fuss):_ A guy from Find-The-One. He’s been joining the dots for us on the online front. What dots there are, at any rate. Still got no name or face to put on him. 

_Sherlock lets out a dissatisfied grunt, and then gives an involuntary shudder. His wet clothes are visibly weighing him down._

LESTRADE  _(picking up Sherlock’s coat from the floor):_ You should probably go to hospital. Get a once-over, just in case. 

_Sherlock shrugs, then holds out the sodden towel he’s been using to clean himself up to Lestrade._

SHERLOCK: As I said. Microfibre.

LESTRADE  _(morosely):_ I'll take your word for it. 

_Sally returns from the hall, phone in hand, saving Lestrade from the necessity of having to inspect the soiled towel too closely. She's looking extremely disquieted._

SALLY  _(to Lestrade, without preamble):_ He’s already hunting again. Made a new profile with the same pictures only a couple of hours ago. He’s calling himself “Oliver George Love” this time, of all things. 

LESTRADE: And?

SALLY: And he’s already been chatting with a woman half the afternoon. Vinh says he asked to meet her for dinner, and she’s just given him her mobile number.

LESTRADE  _(wryly):_ Well, that was fast. 

SALLY  _(unsmiling):_ Look at the woman's profile.

_She holds out her phone, with a browser window open on it. At the top of the profile is a personalised banner with a picture of a killer whale jumping out of the sea, with the slogan “Save the Whales” blazoned above it. The lower half of the small screen is filled with a photo of the member in question._

LESTRADE: Bloody hell.

_He takes the phone from Sally and holds it out to Sherlock. Smiling shyly up at them from the screen is none other than Molly Hooper._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, Christmas on a cliffhanger! Sorry, everyone - I really didn't mean for that to happen. Not much, at any rate. ;) Last chapter and resolution coming up on Boxing Day. Have a wonderful Christmas, everyone! :)


	10. Chapter 10

_**In her lab at Barts,** _ _Molly Hooper is sitting at one of the workbenches. She’s already put on her jacket, ready to leave for the day, and her bag is next to her on the bench. Outside the windows, it’s already dark. Molly distractedly turns the pages of a medical journal, but more often than not glances instead at her phone that lies close at hand, as if waiting for a call._

_Then the door bursts open, and Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan and Sherlock come practically storming into the room. They seem to have stopped over at Baker Street on their way here for dry clothes for Sherlock, but he still looks a little dishevelled. He’s probably had to change in the car._

LESTRADE _(to Molly, urgently):_ Has he called you yet? The man you’ve been chatting with?

_Molly doesn’t seem very surprised, neither at their sudden appearance nor at the question._

MOLLY: Yeah, about half an hour ago. _(She produces a piece of notepaper with a mobile phone number jotted down on it from her bag, and hands it to Lestrade.)_ That’s the number he’s using.

_Lestrade baulks at her calm, collected tone._

MOLLY _(a little puzzled):_ Sorry, did I do wrong?

_Lestrade opens his mouth, but Sherlock – who seems less surprised than Lestrade, but even more alarmed - is faster._

SHERLOCK _(to Molly):_ Are you meeting him?

MOLLY _(with a small smile):_ Right now.

SHERLOCK _(rather brusquely):_ Where exactly?

MOLLY: Camden Lock, as arranged **.** _(Frowning at Sherlock’s tone)_ I thought you’d all be there already, I didn’t -

_Sherlock instantly whips around to Lestrade._

SHERLOCK: You heard that. Let’s get going.

LESTRADE _(still at a loss):_ What?

SHERLOCK _(herding Lestrade hastily back out of the door):_ Come on! Or do you want to find him drowned?

_Lestrade exchanges a puzzled look with Sally Donovan, but then they let themselves be swept along, leaving Molly behind in now equal confusion. But just when the door is about to fall closed behind the three others, Molly grabs her bag from the workbench and sprints after them._

MOLLY: Wait! I’m coming with you!

 

* * *

 

 _**Camden Lock. Night time.** _ _The picturesque banks of the Regent’s Canal, always teeming with shoppers and tourists in the daytime,_ _are empty in the darkness_ _. The willow trees on either side of the water loom black and massive, casting the waterside into deep shadow. There is no activity at the twin lock on the canal that gave the area its name, and the towpath that runs alongside it seems deserted. From the surrounding brick buildings - warehouses and stables now converted into fashionable shops and cafés - only an occasional snatch of laughter or conversation comes floating down to the path, when a door opens and closes. Cars and buses are going past on the nearby Camden High Street, but their lights don’t reach down here. The water, sluggish and with patches of duckweed floating on its surface, looks pitch black._

_A solitary man stands on the northern bank of the canal, near where a brick archway gives access to the Camden Market area. He has his phone out, obviously just whiling away the time while waiting for someone. In the faint light from the screen, he can be seen to be in his thirties, with altogether unremarkable short brown hair, and dressed equally unobtrusively in a dark jacket and jeans. His face is roundish, with smooth cheeks and slightly hooded eyes, and he wears a scarf high around his neck._

_Then from the direction of the lock, another man approaches, treading silently, no more than a shadow in the darkness. He halts a few steps away from the archway, and addresses the man standing by it - in John Watson’s voice._

JOHN _(quietly):_ Oliver?

_The man with the phone looks up in surprise, squinting into the darkness to make out who’s talking._

MAN: Yes?

 JOHN: Or is it John? Or Henry? Or George?

_The stranger has spotted his opponent now. He quickly slides the phone into his pocket._

MAN _(alarmed):_ Who are you? Are you the police?

JOHN: Interesting question. Why would I be?

MAN _(quickly):_ No reason. _(In a tone of forced calm)_ Look, I don’t know what you want, but - _(He gestures behind him, in the direction of the archway.)_ \- but I’m meeting someone, so…

_He begins to retreat towards the archway leading into the market area. John quickly steps out of the shadow of the wall to let his face be seen._

JOHN: Yes. You’re meeting me.

_He reaches behind him, and when his hand comes up again, he’s holding his gun. He raises it to point directly at the stranger’s head. The man’s jaw drops, and his expression turns into a grimace of sheer panic._

MAN _(in an incredulous stammer):_ But - but you’re the _doctor!_

JOHN: Yes. And your treatment isn’t over yet.

 

* * *

 

 _**Camden Lock. Night time.** _ _Greg Lestrade’s car comes racing up Camden High Street in complete defiance of all speed limits. With screeching tyres, it halts at the kerb just south of the road bridge across the canal, and four people tumble out of it - Greg Lestrade himself, Sally Donovan, Sherlock and Molly Hooper. They immediately set off along the narrow walkway that leads past a closed coffee shop down to the waterside on the southern bank, until they’re level with the lock. At the low iron fence separating the public footpath from the operating area of the lock itself, Sherlock halts, and holds up his hand to demand silence. They listen intently for a moment, and there it is - the sound of splashing water, and feeble whimpers of pain or protest, a little further up the canal._

MOLLY _(pointing across at the willow tree overhanging the northern bank):_ Over there!

_Lestrade and Sally Donovan immediately set out towards a footbridge that spans the canal twenty yards further on. Sherlock hesitates, but then instead of following them, he swings himself over the fence right into the lock area itself. A single long step takes him from the bank onto the narrow upper edge of nearest sluice gate. Using it as a balance beam, he makes his way across the water at break-neck speed, arms held out on either side like some demented tightrope-walker. Molly Hooper, who has remained behind on the southern bank, claps her hand to her mouth in alarm. Sherlock teeters precariously once or twice, but he safely reaches the other side a valuable half-minute before Lestrade and Sally have negotiated the footbridge._

_In the distance, the sirens of several police cars can be heard approaching, and a moment later, their flashing blue lights have appeared on the road bridge. Molly, who has remained behind on the southern bank of the canal, looks around, quickly makes up her mind, and runs back towards the road to meet the reinforcements and show them where to go._

_On the northern bank, Sherlock is the first to arrive at a short flight of stone steps that lead down from the towpath onto a small wooden landing stage right at the edge of the water, a little beyond the archway into Camden Market, hidden from sight underneath the hanging branches of the willow._

_Two figures are crouched on it, one above the other in an ungainly heap. The one at the bottom is on his knees, his head and shoulders down at water level, while the one on top has his hand on the back of his victim’s head, and keeps ducking it in the muddy canal, holding him under for a few seconds before letting him up again._

SHERLOCK _(shouting at the top of his voice as he comes slithering down the damp steps):_ John! Stop it!

_He reaches the landing stage. The thump as his weight lands on it makes the man on top – John, indeed - pause and look up. A moment later, Sherlock has already wrapped his arms around his friend, and is hauling him bodily off his victim._

 SHERLOCK _(still shouting):_ Stop that, you idiot! D’you want to kill him?

_Lestrade and Sally Donovan arrive. Seeing John taken care of, they immediately make for the other man, who has collapsed on the landing stage, wheezing and spluttering, his upper body wet through and through._

_John twists out of Sherlock’s hold, but once freed, he only straightens up and calmly rearranges his clothes. He no longer deigns to even look at the other man, who is being pulled into a sitting position by the two police officers, clearly alive but too weak to protest or resist. John gives Sherlock a rather reproachful look, then reaches past him for his phone, which is sitting propped up on a narrow ledge in the stone wall of the canal. John switches it off, and hands it to Greg Lestrade._

JOHN: That’s the full story on there. Just in case he'll have trouble remembering any of it once he's talked to a lawyer. And you might want to send someone to trawl the pond on Peckham Rye Common straight away. Another day in the water probably won't improve the state of the laptop, the phone and the towel he dumped in there.

_Lestrade, astonished, takes the phone from John without a word._

JOHN _(with a crooked smile):_ And now I could do with something to warm me up.

_Gathering his dignity about him, he turns away and starts climbing the stairs back up to the footpath - just as Molly Hooper, with a team of uniformed policemen in tow, finally comes hurrying towards them from the direction of the road._

 

* * *

 

 _**The coffee shop on the corner of Camden High Street, between the main road and the lock.** _ _The place seems to have partially reopened to become the temporary headquarters of the Metropolitan Police's operation in the area._

_A little group of uniformed officers is gathered outside the door, radios beeping. Inside, the chairs are up on most of the tables, and most of the lights have been switched off. But one table by the window is occupied by Sherlock and John. They sit in stony silence with steaming paper cups in front of them, still in their coats, studiously avoiding each other’s eyes._

SHERLOCK _(after a moment, in a deliberately casual tone):_ You do know that even the Americans banned waterboarding back in 2009, don’t you? On the grounds that all it ever induces a subject to tell their interrogators is what they want to hear, rather than what really happened?

JOHN _(defensively):_ Well, sometimes those two things do coincide.

_But to his credit, he's not looking exactly proud of himself. Sherlock gives a snort._

JOHN _(annoyed):_ I know, it wasn’t the most elegant solution. Not my fault, though.

SHERLOCK _(frowning):_ What do you mean?

JOHN: You could just have _talked_ to me, Sherlock. Right from the start.

SHERLOCK _(evasively):_ You were busy working.

JOHN: No, I bloody wasn’t. Not twenty-four seven, and you know it. Did you seriously believe I’d be happier never knowing what happened to her?

_No answer._

JOHN: And for the record - next time you can’t deduce something, just bloody _ask_.

_He takes a sip of his tea - too hastily. It burns his tongue. John pulls a face._

SHERLOCK _(raising an eyebrow):_ So you can walk out in a huff?

JOHN: You’re not the only one who’s got things in his past that he doesn’t enjoy remembering, you know!

SHERLOCK _(rather coolly):_ I told you there was no such thing as privacy in a murder investigation.

JOHN: And when was the last time _you_ were a suspect in one of those? That doesn’t exactly feel fantastic, you know.

SHERLOCK _(dismissively):_ It certainly doesn’t seem to facilitate rational thinking.

JOHN _(furiously):_ That's not about rational thinking, Sherlock, that's about respect! Just in case you’ve ever heard of that concept before!

_A corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t reply._

_Outside, a welcome distraction moves past the window: Two uniformed police officers leading the way, then a team of paramedics, wheeling a stretcher with a warmly covered figure on it, and Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper bringing up the rear. The officials continue to the main road with their charge, but Molly Hooper turns aside into the coffee shop, the bell on its door jingling as she pushes it open. She gives Sherlock and John a quick nod, then addresses herself to the man behind the counter, probably asking for a hot drink of her own. John follows Sherlock’s eyes, which have been fixed on Molly from the moment she’s entered._

JOHN _(in an undertone):_ I hope you’re impressed with her, at least.

SHERLOCK: Not if she knew what you were going to do.

JOHN _(quickly):_ Oh, no. Not at all. I only asked her to borrow a photo for the profile. But she said she wanted to help with the rest, too. Could barely dissuade her from coming along tonight to make it look genuine.

_Now Sherlock does look decidedly impressed. John, seeing it, picks up his cup again._

JOHN _(with a wry little smile):_ Well, she knows what it's like.

SHERLOCK _(drily):_ What, to be drowned in a bath?

JOHN _(pointedly):_ To date a dangerous criminal without knowing it.

SHERLOCK: Ah. I forgot.

_But in spite of his non-committal tone, there is definitely true respect, and maybe even a touch of admiration, in the way he’s looking at the petite pathologist now._

_Molly, who has successfully negotiated with the management not only for tea but also for today’s leftovers, now joins the two friends at their table, carefully carrying her drink and a plate with a little heap of baked goods on it. She sets it down in the middle of the table, and picks a blueberry muffin._

MOLLY _(a little awkwardly):_ Sorry. Crime solving is hungry work, don’t you find? And I did miss a dinner date. _(She takes a large bite of her muffin, and sighs.)_ But I'm so glad we've got him.

JOHN _(to Molly):_ Well, you got him. You were brilliant on the phone with him. He didn’t suspect anything at all.

MOLLY _(modestly):_ Oh, I just did what you told me – threw myself right at the first man who seemed more interested in the whales than in me _. (With a slightly reproachful look at John)_ I thought we were doing it just to catch him, though.

SHERLOCK: Well, it wasn’t a bad idea, making that profile to trap him. _(Almost grudgingly)_ I might have thought of that myself.

JOHN _(drily):_ Oh, high praise.

_The door of the café is pushed open again, and Greg Lestrade comes walking up to their table. He slumps down next to Molly, and without so much as a by-your-leave picks out a chocolate croissant from her supply._

LESTRADE: Would you believe it - George Joseph Smith is actually real! _(He takes a bite, then digs out his little black notebook.)_ He's an old friend, too. Database entry as long as my arm. _(Consulting his notebook)_ Born in Bethnal Green, London, in 1978. Sent to a Young Offender's institution at the age of fifteen for theft and receiving stolen goods on so many counts that even his parents gave up on him. On his release moved down to the coast. Seemed to do well for a while. Set up his own business in the IT sector, and in the summer even worked as a volunteer -

SHERLOCK _(smiling sourly):_ \- lifeguard?

LESTRADE: How do you -

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ Expert on drowning. I told you so.

LESTRADE _(his eyes back on the notebook):_ He had no head for business, at any rate. By the time he had to file bankruptcy, there were already dozens of creditors and business partners pressing charges of fraud, forgery and embezzlement against him. So back to prison for another four years or so. Got back out only in early 2009. It’s definitely our man. He gave us his real name straight away when we asked him to identify himself, just now. Almost like he was glad it was all over.

SHERLOCK _(drily):_ Well, he must have been.

MOLLY _(to John, quickly):_ But he was responsive and all. No reason to suspect lasting damage. They’re just taking him to hospital for overnight monitoring.

JOHN _(quietly):_ Thanks.

_A rather awkward silence falls. Then Molly makes a valiant effort to change the subject._

MOLLY _(to Lestrade):_ But if he used his real name with Beatrice Mundy, he might have been serious about her at first, right? If she was such a rich woman, getting together with her for real would have taken care of all his financial trouble.

LESTRADE _(doubtfully):_ Possible. Or else he was just being careless.

SHERLOCK: Though not as careless as he was when he killed for the third time.

LESTRADE: Why? _(With a lopsided grin at John)_ Because he shouldn’t have picked John Watson's ex?

_John grimaces._

SHERLOCK _(to Lestrade):_ Because he picked a victim who was a local semi-celebrity whose sudden tragic death made the national news, of course, leading us to the other two. _(Rather snidely)_ If I may remind you, the fact that she was John Watson’s ex very nearly enabled the killer to get away with it, while you were so very busy looking in the wrong place!

MOLLY _(to Lestrade, confused):_ What? What are you talking about?

_There is another silence, even more awkward than the first. Molly looks from Sherlock to John for answers, but neither of them seems to be willing to elaborate. Then Lestrade straightens up in his seat and clears his throat._

LESTRADE _(to John, earnestly):_ Well, yes, that was - that was wrong. _We_ were wrong. _(A little sheepishly)_ Sorry, John. Actually, looking back, I’m not sure how we could ever think -

SHERLOCK _(cutting him off, sarcastically):_ Well, it wasn’t entirely unlikely. As you saw, John won’t hesitate to give anyone a ducking if he thinks there’s a good enough reason.

JOHN _(unsmiling):_ Sherlock, that’s not funny.

LESTRADE _(to John, seriously):_ It’s true though. We’d probably better delete what’s on your phone, if you don’t want Smith to press charges against _you_ . And then we’ve just got to hope that what evidence we’ll find in the pond on Peckham Rye Common, on Alice Burnham’s old laptop and in the Mundys' empty house in Herne Bay will suffice to convict _him_.

_Molly, who seems to have taken until now to put two and two together, turns to Lestrade in complete astonishment._

MOLLY: You didn’t seriously think that it was _John_ who - ?

_Lestrade shrugs a little helplessly._

SHERLOCK _(to Molly):_ Have some pity on our narrow-minded police, Molly. The statistics were dead against him.

JOHN _(rolling his eyes in annoyance):_ So that’s what I am, then, a statistical anomaly?

SHERLOCK _(earnestly):_ Absolutely, yes.

_The two friends look at each other for a moment. John seems rather surprised to find no more hint of irony in Sherlock’s expression. Then it starts to sink in that what he’s just heard amounts to no less than a rare and beautiful compliment. The corners of his mouth are just beginning to go up in a half-exasperated, half-affectionate laugh, when the bell on the door jingles again. A uniformed policeman pokes his head in._

POLICEMAN _(calling across to Lestrade):_ Sir? The crew from the second ambulance would like to know if they’re still needed.

LESTRADE _(clapping his hand to his forehead):_ Oh, drat. Clean forgotten them.

SHERLOCK _(with a frown):_ What second ambulance?

_Lestrade pockets his notebook and rises from his chair._

LESTRADE: Same reason why we called the one for Smith, of course.

_John exchanges a look with Lestrade, and immediately catches on._

JOHN _(to Sherlock, innocently):_ Like Molly said. Overnight monitoring for secondary complications. Standard medical practice for all cases of near-drowning, you know, even for those _not_ requiring resuscitation. _(He gets up from his seat, and nudges Sherlock off his own, too.)_ Come on, then.

SHERLOCK _(stubbornly):_ I’m fine, I don’t -

_John, not listening, starts herding Sherlock towards the door._

JOHN: Come on, or don’t you want to be fit for when you replicate that little stunt for the jury in court? You're not missing anything here. The Met’s got a murder suspect to process, Molly will want to get started on a new paper for the Journal of Forensic Pathology - 

SHERLOCK _(digging in his heels):_ And what about you?

JOHN: I’ll take all night to type up the Adventure of the Brides in the Bath for the blog, of course. _(He holds up his index fingers and waggles them in front of his friend’s face.)_ Five words a minute, remember?

_Sherlock scoffs. John invitingly holds to door open. Sherlock lets himself be escorted outside, though still radiating disapproval._

MOLLY _(to Lestrade, in a worried undertone):_ Sherlock near-drowning, too? What’s all that about?  
  
LESTRADE: Your paper. _(With a resigned sigh)_ I’m sure he’ll be proud to give you all the details tomorrow.

_They follow Sherlock and John out of the café, and fall into step side by side._

MOLLY _(nodding at the two friends walking ahead):_ Will they be okay though, d’you think? That’s quite a lot of broken china.

_The voices of Sherlock and John come floating back towards them, still bickering._

JOHN: I’ll ask your brother to sit with you if you like.

SHERLOCK: Don’t you dare, John Watson!

LESTRADE _(to Molly, with a smile):_ Mending already, wouldn’t you say?

_Molly smiles back._

 

 

* * *

THE END

December 2016

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m hugely indebted to [ RubraSaetaFictor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RubraSaetaFictor/pseuds/RubraSaetaFictor), who - in the temporary absence of my regular beta-reader Cooklet - very generously agreed to beta-read this story, and did so both with the eyes of a hawk and at the speed of lightning. Thank you SO much, dear - without you, this story would never have seen the light of day before season 4, and probably never at all. 
> 
> I’d also like to thank  
> \- Wellingtongoose for her excellent [medical “Sherlock” metas](http://wellingtongoose.tumblr.com/semantics), which have been extremely helpful in shaping my headcanon about John’s present and past medical work;  
> \- Cooklet for some preliminary discussion on what exactly convinced Sherlock in the first place that Molly Hooper of all people would make a suitably discreet and cool-headed conspirator for the Reichenbach deception; and  
> \- [ maryagrawatson](http://archiveofourown.org/users/maryagrawatson/pseuds/maryagrawatson) for medical advice on first aid for near-drowning, and for cheering me on during the writing process. 
> 
> Thank you also to all who kudo’ed and commented, and may still do so - your feedback, big or small, is always very much appreciated! :)


	11. Editorial Notes

 

To conclude, for those of you who are interested, some editorial notes on the original case of the Brides in the Bath, and a little glimpse behind the scenes of its fictionalisation.

As some of you may have realised or guessed while reading, this story is based on a real, historic case. The case of the Brides in the Bath, as it quickly became known, was investigated and solved by the Metropolitan Police at the time of the First World War. It inspired both the main plot and many details in the story you've just read.

Just like the character in my story, the real George Joseph Smith ruthlessly preyed on unmarried young women. He promised them all a safe, happy life with him as a loving husband, while In fact ripping them off in the most unscrupulous manner, including killing three of them for their inheritance and/or insurance money as soon as they’d signed the relevant papers.

Under a different alias each time (including "Henry Williams", "John Lloyd" and "Oliver George Love"), Smith entered into no less than seven bigamous marriages. In most cases, he merely made off again after a few weeks with his “wife’s” belongings and money. In three cases, however – those of Beatrice “Bessie” Mundy in Herne Bay (1912), Alice Burnham in Blackpool (1913) and Margaret Lofty in London (1914) – Smith “found” the women drowned in their bathtubs, with their heads under water and their feet up. They had all made wills in Smith’s favour, and/or taken out a life insurance with Smith as the sole benefactor, shortly before. In all cases, the coroners' verdicts ruled death by accident or misadventure, assuming that the women had died from sudden heart attacks, or drowned in fits of epilepsy or similar seizures. No traces of violence had been found on any of their bodies.

Twice, Smith cashed in on the deaths and moved on, unchallenged by the law. Back at a time when there were no ID documents, and press coverage of strange incidents and accidents was mostly restricted to the local level, nobody made a connection between these deaths.

But when Smith killed for the third time, he made – as our BBC Sherlock would put it - the one mistake that serial killers must always make to get caught. He killed Margaret Lofty in London rather than in a more provincial place. As a result, Lofty's death was reported in a London-based nationwide newspaper, the _News of the World_. It thus attracted the attention of Smith’s and Alice Burnham’s former landlord in Blackpool, a Mr Joseph Crossley. He contacted Scotland Yard, pointing out the striking similarities between Margaret Lofty's and Alice Burnham's deaths. This was also reported in the papers, in turn alerting the local chief police officer at Herne Bay. The good man immediately brought another similar case from his own jurisdiction - that of Bessie Mundy - to Scotland Yard’s attention.

After an intense investigation, including many witness interviews and the exhumation of all three victims for new post mortems, the Metropolitan Police concluded that the same man had been involved in all three cases as the victims' supposed husband, and George Joseph Smith was arrested. This was achieved with the assistance of Margaret Lofty’s life insurance company, who lured Smith to their offices by pretending to be willing to satisfy his claim.

Even after Smith’s arrest, it remained a mystery how exactly he had managed to kill his “wives” without leaving traces. Smith himself wouldn’t tell. Scotland Yard therefore consulted Dr Bernard Spilsbury, one of the first Home Office pathologists - a new post recently created to acknowledge the growing importance of medical expertise in criminal investigations.

Dr Spilsbury, although he was considered _the_ forensic capacity in the United Kingdom at the time, found no conclusive proof of either natural death or of violence or poisoning in any of the three victims’ bodies. He thus decided to set up a rather unorthodox experiment.

Together with Detective-Inspector Neil, who was in charge of the investigation at the Met, Spilsbury hired several experienced female divers of the same size and build as the victims to reconstruct the crimes in the original bathtubs in which they had happened. It turned out that quickly pulling up the feet of the test persons, so that their heads slid under water in a rush, resulted in immediate loss of consciousness while leaving no signs of foul play. It reportedly took half an hour to revive one of the poor guinea pigs, but it proved the killer’s MO to the satisfaction of the investigators.

It convinced the jury, too. George Joseph Smith was charged with murder, tried at the Old Bailey, found guilty, and sentenced to death. After his appeal was rejected, he was hanged at Maidstone Prison in August 1915.

The exact medical explanation for Smith’s killing method remains unclear. The explanation I have offered in my story is the most specific and the most plausible I could find. Strangely enough, there seem to have been no copycat cases that might have led to more recent forensic research into this question. A man was convicted of killing his lover in the same way in South Australia in 1995, but the conviction was ultimately overturned - though more due to a general lack of evidence than due to a detailed medical analysis of the scenario.

 

If you’d like to read up on the original Brides in the Bath case, try these resources:

  * [Wikipedia article](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Joseph_Smith) on George Joseph Smith
  * George Joseph Smith profile on [Murderpedia.org](http://murderpedia.org/male.S/s/smith-george-joseph.htm)
  * “Brides in the Bath” case summary on [History by the Yard](http://www.historybytheyard.co.uk/brides_in_bath.htm)
  * “Brides in the Bath” case summary on the [Metropolitan Police official website](http://content.met.police.uk/Article/Brides-in-the-Bath-Murders/1400015481775/1400015481775)
  * A full transcript of the original court proceedings can be found [here.](http://netk.net.au/BridesInTheBathHome.asp)



 

But why a fictional rewrite? And more specifically, why a Sherlockisation?

Because I feel that the original story of the Brides in the Bath has lost nothing of its topicality even a century later.

It still comes pretty close to home. I readily admit that it freaked me out when I first read about it. Those crimes represent such a gigantic betrayal of trust, and that’s unfortunately a timeless danger.

In the 21st century western world, social pressure on women to find a husband at all cost has of course abated significantly. All single women who are looking for a partner remain at risk, however, of finding themselves the victims of men who look for something much more mundane than love.

Actually marrying someone who is not who they pretend to be has become almost technically impossible these days, too. But in the world of online dating, it’s still as easy as it was in 1914 to put on a different persona and tell fairy tales about oneself to impress a potential partner. And sometimes the damage - emotional, financial or even physical - is already done by the time the wolves drop their masks.

Law enforcement officers will look twice these days if the victim of an unexpected death has only just made a will or taken out a life insurance in favour of their partner. So today, con artists usually have to come up with more creative ways of relieving their unsuspecting partners of their money. But they still do. If you're interested, take a look at [ this report by the National Fraud Intelligence Bureau](https://www.cityoflondon.police.uk/news-and-appeals/Pages/online-dating-fraud.aspx) to get an idea of the extent of the problem.

And it remains a worrying fact that - be it due to lack of training or lack of awareness on the part of medical and legal professionals - even today many deaths that should raise eyebrows still get assigned much too quickly to natural causes or accidents.

But Smith’s case also presents – as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Holmes would have put it – several other features of interest.

Smith’s trial is one of the earliest examples in British legal history in which a conviction was secured almost exclusively through forensic evidence - at a time when the concept of forensic science as such was still in its infancy. Smith himself protested his innocence literally to his last breath. So the jury had little to go on, apart from the extreme improbability of one and the same man losing three spouses in three years through the same rare kind of accident, which was technically still no proof of his guilt. By the standards of 1915, the jury took a real leap of faith when they went with little more than Dr Spilsbury’s evidence of how the drowning must have been accomplished to pronounce Smith guilty.

The investigation also marks one of the earliest uses of what is today called forensic profiling - the comparison of individual characteristics, circumstances and peculiarities of several separate crimes to establish patterns that lead to the identification of the perpetrator.

But quite apart from the moral and legal lessons to be learned from it, the Brides in the Bath case is just a fantastic story. It was absolutely begging for a fictional retelling, and - to me, at any rate - it was specifically just waiting to be transferred into the BBC "Sherlock" universe.

Our BBC Sherlock would have loved it. The puzzling lack of medical evidence for the causes of death; the almost fantastical coincidence that lead the investigators from the last death to the previous ones; the general attraction of dealing with a ruthless serial killer whose greed, in the end, is his downfall... Sherlock would say that’s Christmas three times over.

And isn’t Dr Spilsbury’s reconstruction of the crime - which is of course highly unethical by modern standards - exactly what Sherlock would do to prove his point, even with himself as the guinea pig?

All the original cast of characters also translated just perfectly both into "Sherlock" canon characters and into modern OCs.

On the one hand, a chillingly unscrupulous serial killer, and his innocent and truly pitiable victims, driven into his arms just as much by societal pressure as by his own carefully constructed fairy tales.

On the other hand, a wonderfully congenial and very familiar duo of investigators - the experienced, highly competent and hard-working official detective from the Met, and his glamorous, unorthodox forensic consultant.

Unfortunately at first, with the roles of DI Neil and Dr Spilsbury already taken by Greg Lestrade and Sherlock himself, there seemed to be little room for John in the Sherlockised version. But sometimes solutions present themselves suddenly and unexpectedly. I intended no disrespect to the memory of Margaret Lofty when I changed her name to that of Jeanette from “A Scandal in Belgravia”. But when I realised what might happen if I gave the last victim the name and face of John's ex-girlfriend, I just couldn’t resist. Just to clarify: No honourable ex-army doctor was ever suspected of the killings in the original case.

Jolie_Black

December 2016


End file.
